The Strange Case of Alice Walker
by R.K. Wesley
Summary: Sherlock had his fair share of odd cases. Some were questionable at best. But, this peculiar case takes the cake. A bewildered man, believing that another had rose from the depths of the earth to claim vengeance for causing his death, has called upon Sherlock to help. Yet as Sherlock and John learn as the case goes on, what is the truth and what is pure fiction?
1. Helping Alice

It was a dark morning. The clouds had spread thickly over the skies that the phantom wind could not thin them out and so the sun was absent. Rain poured from the skies above, spilling over rooftops to pooling in the roads. The forecast wasn't better; this was to stay until next week where the chances lessened. Even then, it could've stayed the same for another week.

But for one man, it was nothing more than a mild annoyance.

He lived in a small flat in the Downtown. It wasn't small it couldn't support two people. It was small in a sense he had it filled to the brim with everything that he fancied. Books in neat stacks near the walls and skulls of late friends dotting the mantle of the fireplace, jars of oddities given as gifts from still living friends, papers of various subjects strewn about the flat, often on the floors, and the occasional heads in the refrigerator as means to test theories. But for the man with his skulls and books, it was a humble living.

He had a website dedicated to his service, with people bombarding him daily with inquiries. He was often called upon by London's finest whenever there was something they were stumped on and he came to mind. To say, if you had a peculiar case and you needed an expert to call upon, he was your expert. His name was Sherlock Holmes and he lived on 221B Baker Street.

Today marked a day where a peculiar man was to visit the famous detective. For why, he didn't mention in the email, only that he desperately needed Sherlock's help. It could've meant anything where everyone's concerned. Sherlock was no stranger to frantic calls for help, but this one aroused his curiosity. The man who contacted him was named Alice Walker and he worked as a simple clerk in North Shire. He claimed that he needed Sherlock because as he put it, "only he can solve it". What he meant by that, Sherlock was hoping to find out from his meeting.

Sherlock played on his trusty violin as he shuffled around the flat. Alice would be arriving in a few minutes and Sherlock wasn't someone who would wait idly. He had to keep himself busy, too. He would play his violin until he heard knocking at his door. It was not the usual knock by Mrs. Hudson nor was it John, it sounded frantic. He laid down his violin in its case and headed toward the door. Upon opening it, he was greeted by the appearance of a disheveled man in his sixties who looked to have seen a ghost.

He was pale like the moon. His graying hair was matted from the rain, covering the top of his rounded glasses. The man was drenched in a mixture of rain and sweat as he had been running through the rain and toward Sherlock's residence.

"Good morning," said the man as he pulled his wet hair away from his glasses. He looked at Sherlock and asked, "Are you the one they call Sherlock Holmes, London's greatest detective that ever was?"

"I am," Sherlock nodded. Alice sighed as he tapped his shoes against the mat in front of the door before he entered the flat. He was shown his seat, a simple wooden chair that was placed in the center where Sherlock would gaze at those who sat in it. As Alice sat down he pulled out a wet envelope and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock took it into his hands and stared at it. It took no time at all to pry the envelope loose and inside was at least four hundred dollars, American.

"You're giving me American dollars, Mr. Walker?" Sherlock gazed at the four Benjamin Franklins that were slightly damp. They were fresh off the conveyer belt and from the looks of it; they were only in circulation for one year. Alice nodded and said to Sherlock as he studied the money, "I was going to exchange them for Euros, but I didn't have the time. I hope it's an acceptable payment."

"Hm, we can start with how you got into contact with me," Sherlock sat the money down neatly on the table near the lit fireplace before he turned back to Alice.

Alice nodded. He explained to Sherlock, "When it happened, I tried going to the police, but they weren't any help. I tried reaching out to friends in Norfolk, but they didn't believe me. So out of desperation I went on a library's computer and came across your website, sir."

Sherlock eyed him and slowly nodded. He then asked, "And what is it that you need help with that needs my attention?"

"I figure a man like you, who solved so many odd and quizzical cases, would understand my plight. I come to you, Mr. Holmes, with fevered thoughts and dreams, because I fear my end is near," Alice said mournfully. Sherlock raised a brow at him. He was used to men and women who came to him unnecessary for menial reasons, such as cheating and what have you, but there were never really any times where someone actually believed that they were going to die or be killed.

"What do you mean, Mr. Walker?" Sherlock gestured with his free hand as he crossed his arms at Alice. Alice sighed as he wiped water away from his brow. He said to Sherlock as he rubbed his palm against his drenched trousers, "Thirty years or so ago, next week on the 31st, I was involved in a murder. I was a young reckless police officer who bit off more than he could chew. I was boorish and foolish, but above all else I wanted to rise through the ranks. Unfortunately, it meant I had to take bribes in order to achieve my dream."

Alice shook his head as his green eyes shimmered in the light. Sherlock stared at him as he heard his tale and his mind was already working on deconstructing Alice's story. As his mind deconstructed the story, Alice continued.

"I was good friends with a journalist at the time. Frank Colton was his name. And he was on the cusp of releasing the story of a lifetime. It was an insurance scam. It would have made Ponzi believe he was getting off lightly. A company was building affordable homes in Galahad; it's a small town close to the border of Scotland. However, the houses weren't built for comfort in mind. The scam was that if something were to happen to the houses, the company would be paid for the loss by the insurance company. Frank was going to expose the scam, but he couldn't," Alice rubbed his eyes. He stopped as he noticed Sherlock's light eyes moving up and down, eying him. Sherlock blinked when Alice noticed and cleared his throat.

"Frank Colton, I don't believe I heard that name," Sherlock shook his head.

Alice frowned. He said with a straight face, "Because of me he's dead. He died before he could expose the truth. He was just a normal man who wanted to do good for his community. Because of me he is now just a spook story told to kids by irate parents."

"What did you do?" Sherlock's natural curiosity rose as he was told by Alice Walker that he killed the late journalist. It wasn't the first time that people have confessed to crimes, more often or not, confessing solely because Sherlock exposed them. Yet, it was the first time someone confessed a crime without Sherlock poking holes in their alibis and the like.

Alice looked at Sherlock, "I was paid a bribe. The Hilton Association wanted to know where Frank would be. I thought they were just going to scare him. Frank had the good sense to back off if he felt his life was threatened so I assumed they were going to scare him enough to quit."

Alice looked down to his worn slacks as he shook his head. "The next day, I got a phone call. They were pleased with my contributions. When I asked about Frank, they didn't say. Only when I went into work that morning did I get my answer. Frank went missing. No one could find him. His flat was ransacked and his typewriter was broken and his article ruined. They turned to me asking for answers and I didn't know what to say. The Hilton Association wasn't giving me clear answers and why would they?"

Sherlock wrote down mental notes as he listened to Alice. It was unheard of that a corrupt business would send men to rough up those they disliked. Yet, there were also the cases of a corrupt business making sure those they didn't like ever make it far. And hearing Alice, it was the case. The Hilton Association bribed Alice and used his knowledge of Frank to sweep their scam under the rug. As Sherlock learned in primary school, they were eventually caught red handed and there were lawsuits after lawsuits. Even then, they never admitted to any crimes committed toward those that displeased them. Any records or knowledge was swept away.

"Why tell me now?" Sherlock was genuine in his response. It wasn't everyday this situation occurred. Though if it did, it would've made Sherlock's job boring. He did enjoy his usual fare of running around in the pit black night looking for clues. He heard Alice, "Because, Frank came back."

This was rousing Sherlock's interest in more ways than one. He eyed Alice. "Frank came back?" he gestured. Alice looked around uncomfortably, as if checking to see if anyone else was hearing them. He nodded at Sherlock. He said, "Frank came back, but not the way you'd expected."

"What do you possibly mean?" Sherlock blinked. This was getting quite interesting, so much so, it made the Lady in Pink look trivial. "Mr. Holmes, I am not going to ask if you're a praying man. I know by the look of you, you aren't. But heed me, for what I am saying. They killed Frank and he rose from the dead to claim vengeance against those responsible."

Now, Sherlock could tell you all sorts of cases that he had solved over the years. Some were trivial. Some were questionable at best. But there were a few cases that had him wondering what he was thinking. In this case, it was one of those cases.

"And what has he done to cause you distress," Sherlock asked Alice.

Alice told Sherlock, "I had a son, Peter, he was twelve years old. He loved his rugby and football as any lad. One day, he came down with the flu. He became bedridden soon after. I and my wife were doing everything we could for him. Doctors, specialists, no one knew what it was. Eventually, one night, he called me into his bedroom and told me."

Alice tried to suppress the tears that were forming under his eyes as he continued. "He told me, he wasn't afraid. He died before my very eyes, Mr. Holmes. We buried him on a hilltop outside Cheshire, his favorite spot. It wasn't long before my wife met the same fate. My wife developed depression early on and began to refuse to take her medications. One day at work, I got a phone call, she died of an overdose. Took all her medications at once and was found huddled in our son's old bedroom."

Sherlock offered Alice a box of Kleenix and Alice thanked him as he took it into his hands. He pulled two sheets of tissues and stuck them under his eyes as the tears began to pour freely down his cheeks. As Alice wiped away his tears, Sherlock asked him. "How are their deaths linked?" he blinked. Sherlock knew grief would often get the best of people and often or not, some will begin to grasp at straws as means to cope.

"A raven appeared and perched on a torch outside the stationhouse the day after Frank disappeared. I know you're going to say, Mr. Holmes, and I trust you know what _I_ am going to say. The raven had amber eyes, bronze colored beak, and had the strangest caw that I ever heard. It was watching me and no one else. It followed me to and fro from work and home. I disregarded it until my son's death. When we buried him, Mr. Holmes, it was there watching us. Same raven, I know it by heart. It sat upon the tallest branch of the tree as it watched us grieve. Then, when my wife died, it was there in the apple tree outside our son's window," Alice gestured. "Frank is punishing me for what I have done. I betrayed him, Mr. Holmes, and now he plans to take me next."

Sherlock was in disbelief. True he heard of similar tales from those he helped in the past, but this was something very peculiar. Indeed, it could be said that Alice's son, Peter, was inflicted by a terminal illness, and Alice's wife couldn't handle the loss and in her grief turned to suicide as means to cope. But the tale of a raven following Alice around and seemingly there when a tragedy occurred was something out of a Poe tale. Hearing from Alice about his woes and it can be said that it was indeed a Poe tale. What one, Sherlock hedged a guess.

"Mr. Walker, tell me, why would Frank come back from the dead to torment you now?" Sherlock asked him. Alice's response was something even Sherlock couldn't make heads or tail with. "A year after he disappeared, there were reports brought to my stationhouse about a strange man. He was described to be tall and thin, enrobed in a costume. When we went looking, we found nothing. Every year around this time, we'd get complaints. I always thought it was nothing more than people playing a prank. But it wasn't. Every year on the anniversary of his disappearance, one of the people responsible is killed. I know this sound strange, Mr. Holmes, but do believe me when I say that it doesn't take long to notice the pattern."

"How many were involved?" Sherlock tilted his head. Alice took off his glasses and wiped them with a clean tissue as he replied, "Aside from me, I don't know how many were involved."

Sherlock had a hard time deciding whether or not to believe Alice. Words and notes appeared before his very eyes that said differently. Alice didn't look like he was coming up with an expensive story in order to receive Sherlock's aide. Yet, Sherlock's methodical mind cynically reminded him that there was always more to a story than told. Sherlock nodded and said to Alice, "If he's coming after you. You only have a week before then. Why not hide?"

"You think I didn't try?" Alice balked. He stopped and sighed heavily before putting on his glasses. He responded with, "Every time I hid, I always saw it, that raven! Following me with its amber eyes, always there watching me from afar, it knows where I am even before I do."

For practical reasons, Sherlock asked Alice, "Why didn't you attempt to kill this raven?"

"Because the last soul who tried that wound up under a lorry," Alice replied. He sighed as he sat back in the chair. "One day, a bloke by the name of Dimitri was out partying with his mates. I suspected he was part of the people responsible, because of the raven following him. In a drunken rage, Dimitri tried to kill the raven, claiming it was "talking" to him. What it said to him, I can only guess. The raven attacked him in return and forced Dimitri out into the open road. As Dimitri was fighting it, he didn't notice a lorry coming down the road. Took him out and the raven disappeared. I know this, because I saw the raven in the picture of the scene."

Reasonably, it could've been any raven that was caught in the frame. But, as Sherlock noted, Alice was held to his convictions and will not change even with reasonable doubt. So, Sherlock had to oblige. He watched as Alice settled back into his seat as he stared up at him.

Sherlock then asked him, "Has the raven showed up?"

"It has," Alice quickly nodded. "I see every morning outside my window. I had to sneak out the back just to get to you!"

"When does Frank usually come around?" Sherlock asked. He had to know everything to make a deduction. Even if it was farfetched as it was.

Alice mumbled under his breath as he tried to quickly parse together a sentence. "Um, from what I've noticed, he only seems to come around late at night on his anniversary. He'll appear as soon as he deems fit," Alice answered.

Sherlock slowly nodded. This was beyond any case he solved before. And the fact that Alice was desperate led him to believe that perhaps there was something to it. What that exactly was, Sherlock aimed to find out. He cleared his throat and said to Alice, "I'll take up the case. How do I get into contact with you?"

"Ah, I'll contact you. It's better that way. But, thank you, Mr. Holmes," Alice stood up and shook Sherlock's hand. Sherlock slowly nodded and watched as Alice headed toward the door. He stopped as he was about to grab the door knob and slowly turned back to Sherlock. He mumbled under his breath before he said something to Sherlock.

"Beware the light, Mr. Holmes. He hides where there is light," Alice said in a tone that made even Sherlock's hair stand up. Before Sherlock could get a word in, Alice was down the stairs and out the door. He disappeared as quickly as he arrived.

Sherlock mulled over what he was told. Since Frank never turned up again, it was safe to assume that he wasn't with them anymore. Frank was murdered by the Hilton Association as means to cover up the insurance fraud. As for where Frank's body was dumped, Sherlock had no real way of knowing. He never had been to Galahad much less knowing much about it other than what Alice told him. Suppose his body is there?

No. Even the Hilton Association couldn't afford the risk of someone finding it. And even then, there were still ways of dealing with bodies. They might've chopped it up and scattered the pieces elsewhere. As for why the police hadn't discovered the remnants. Well, perhaps Alice wasn't the only one paid a bribe.

Or, maybe they cremated the body. Spread the ashes in the wind and no one's the wiser. Yet, Sherlock's mind mulled over the fact that the crematorium was too risky. The body would be exposed before being burned. And then of course, anyone could see it was in use just from looking at the chimney. A small town with so few deaths, someone would've gotten suspicious.

As Sherlock mulled, he reached for his violin. He played a few tunes as he mulled. It was something that he did when he was stumped and needed something to keep him occupied. Something to keep him going when there was doubt. Sherlock only stopped after an hour because his phone chimed. It was a text from John asking if he was up. Ah, perfect!

Sherlock, in a way only known to him, asked John to quickly come to his flat. He had a case that he needed help with. When John asked what case, Sherlock was stumped and hadn't even named it yet. Instead he just said for him to get here as soon as possible.

While he waited for John to arrive, Sherlock went around the room readying. He didn't know where to begin rightly, but if Alice was anything to say, find the raven, find the answers.

In thirty minutes, Sherlock was greeted by John who entered the flat. He tapped his umbrella against the bin as he looked over to Sherlock. "Some weather," John sighed as he let his umbrella rest in the bin. He then asked Sherlock, "Now, what's got your curls in a twist?"

"I was asked for help," Sherlock told him. John nodded, "What's new about this one?"

John went over toward the fireplace and held up his palms. "It's an odd case, I'll say it now," Sherlock rubbed his lobe. He overheard John, "How odd is it that it beats out your other cases?"

"A man claims a dead man has come back to claim vengeance against him," Sherlock summed. John chortled as he turned around to face Sherlock. "And you actually took up the case?" John asked. Sherlock pointed to the table with the four Benjamins. John's dark eyes moved down to the table and widened when they spotted the bills.

"He paid you four hundred dollars for you to solve it?" John stood there, shocked. Sherlock then corrected him, "Four hundred dollars, _American_."

"American dollars, for a case, and you took it anyway?" John waved his hand. Sherlock crossed his arms. "It would be rude if I didn't give a look into it, John," Sherlock pointed out. "It's only proper. He paid for my service."

"And what are you supposed to do, grab an Ouija board and start making noise?" John chortled.

"No, he mentioned a raven with amber eyes, bronze colored beak, and a peculiar caw," Sherlock shook his head. John stared at him. John would then say, "Are we in a bloody Poe book?"

"I gave him my word, what was I supposed to do, John, say no?" Sherlock blinked. John sighed and raised his hands. When he lowered his hands, he noticed something peculiar. He collected the Benjamins off the table and looked at them.

"Sherlock, what does this look to you?" John called him over. Sherlock stepped near him and looked at the bills. From afar, they looked like any other. Up close, they had very faint lines that were not a part of the design.

"John, fetch me my black light," Sherlock instructed him as he laid the bills down on the table. John went and grabbed the portable black light Sherlock kept in his flat for such occasion. Sherlock took the portable black light into his hands. John pulled the curtains over the windows and Sherlock flipped the switch.

The black light gave the room a dark hue and the bills on the table lit up neon green. Each bill had a unique design. One bill had a detailed picture of a raven facing right. Its eye was where Benjamin Franklin's head was. On the back were the words: BEWARE THE LIGHT.

The next bill had to be flipped long ways to reveal a dark foreboding figure, a plague doctor. On the back of that bill were the words: HE HIDES IN THE LIGHT.

The third bill was scrawls of the late Frank Colton. On the back of it: BEWARE THE RAVEN.

The fourth and final bill was a raven flying. On the back: IT IS DEATH.

John eyed the bills and the peculiar designs on them. He had his fair share of odd cases, but this was something that both intrigued and frightened him. The few cases that involved people trying to get Sherlock's attention for nefarious purposes, they weren't as intricate as this. This made Mycroft's attempts to get Sherlock to help him look pale in comparison.

John finally said to Sherlock, "Alright, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Good, now help me," Sherlock quickly said as he went toward the table near the windows. On the table was his laptop and as Sherlock tapped a key to wake it from hibernate, he glanced at John. John came over and watched as Sherlock quickly typed out the characteristics of the peculiar raven. The results that came up were quite unusual to say. There were countless forums dedicated to what was termed as, "the London Crow".

The London Crow was supposed to be the messenger of death. It came and went, seen day and night. Its appearance alone was meant as an omen. When it appears and follows someone, their end was near. When that someone died, it disappears. Detailed pictures of the foreboding raven cropped up, some colored and some black and white. Those colored detailed the bright amber eyes and the bronze beak. Descriptions of the raven came up as Sherlock clicked through. It was much larger than the common raven and had a peculiar caw. When other ravens hear its caw, they flee. Its eyes was said to be the color of fire. Its beak had a metallic sheen.

"Sherlock, are you absolutely sure that he isn't one of the loonies?" John looked at him. He glanced at the screen and saw what were reported to be actual photographs of the purported London Crow. They were dated and each photograph showed the raven in some fashion. In some it was perched on top of storefront signs. In others, it was looking down on passerby from a phone booth.

Only when the photos became more detailed as the duo looked, they indeed saw the raven with its bright amber eyes and bronze beak. The photo they came across had the raven perched above a taxi. John stepped back from the screen for a moment and pointed at it. "Photoshop, it has to be," he insisted.

Sherlock mulled over the idea as well. It wouldn't take much to Photoshop a raven into different photographs and recolor it to match the descriptions given. Yet, Sherlock wasn't the type to quickly dismiss ideas. Even outlandish an idea was, he was going to give it a thorough look through. They didn't call him the Great Detective for nothing.

Sherlock's light blue eyes looked at every sentence until they came across a section where an occult store was said to have their answers. Well, it claimed, anyway.

"Ah, good, we'll start there," Sherlock pointed at the screen. John stared at him with disbelief. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John chastised him, "Sherlock, have ya lost your damn marbles?"

"I don't own any marbles," Sherlock gruffly said as he stood up and walked toward the door. He stopped and turned to John. "Then again, if I had any, Mycroft would've known."

And so John had no other choice but to follow. Even if John was aghast at the idea, Sherlock couldn't be trusted to solve a case alone. Like a puppy, Sherlock was prone to getting into trouble. Unlike a puppy being scolded, Sherlock was reprimand with bullets. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock's shenanigans had a nasty habit of bringing unwanted attention. Why, John and one of his exes were kidnapped by a gang because of Sherlock's prying. As well as the many times John's life was put in danger because of Sherlock. So, as a way to keep up with Sherlock and avoid being injured or worse, John was going to have to help Sherlock. Even if it meant that the duo might become the laughingstock on the telly and the internet.

Down the stairs and out into the streets, Sherlock called for a taxi. As the taxi pulled up, John couldn't help but glance up. He had no particular reason to do so, but he did. Up above on a signpost was a rather large raven. John couldn't discern anything about it other than its size because it was far from him. It tilted its head as it glanced over and John's mind instantly murmured the word "amber".

"John," Sherlock called to him. John blinked a dozen times before he got into the back with Sherlock. "Off to Samson Oddity Shoppe, please."

Before the taxi took off, John glanced up to the signpost again. The raven was gone. His mind continued murmur the word amber. Amber.


	2. I Never Heard of London Crow

"Welcome to the Samson Oddity Shoppe. My name is Frank Dash. If you have any questions, I'll be sure to answer," greeted Frank as he looked at them. He was a lanky man, mid-forties. His eyes were dark and his hair was grayed. He was an average bloke who ran an oddity shop. "So, what can I help you with gentlemen?"

"Hello, yes, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this John Watson, we're here about your postings," Sherlock said to him. Frank's eyes lit up as he wagged his finger at them.

"Ah, I knew you'd eventually swing around here. And they said Sherwood was a good place to open up shop!" he smiled.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock stared at Frank. He nodded at him.

"Ah yes, I'm well versed about you, sir. The Great Detective, they call you, solving crimes that no one else can. I figured a man like you would come around looking for more skulls to make your flat a little less drab," Frank gestured.

Sherlock glanced at John and John shrugged. John had been writing about him, it only made sense to describe his flat and everything in it. Including tidbits about the skull of a late friend that hung on the mantle and the occasional hiding spot for cigarettes.

"I'm not interested in skulls, Mr. Dash, I've come to ask you questions about the London Crow," Sherlock explained to Frank as he looked at them funny. He smiled brightly and nodded.

"I thought he was crazy but ever since he started babbling on about the raven, I've been getting people coming in claiming they seen it," Frank pointed at them. He knelt behind the counter and pulled out a box. Inside were photographs and written claims about the alleged sightings. "It's been a business boon, personally. Never had I seen so many people come in just so they could learn more about it."

"Who was it that started it, Mr. Dash?" Sherlock asked. Frank pondered before he answered. "I don't know his name, really. One night he came barreling in and started talking about being followed by a raven. I thought he was a loony, you ken? But, we got to talking and it was like he truly believed there was someone wanting to kill him. I offered to call the police, suppose you too, but he wouldn't have it. He was afraid of the police, never told me why. Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Holmes. Anyway, he left me a few dozen drawings of the raven. Really well done, suppose you'd want to see them?" Frank looked at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. While Frank went through the box, locating the drawings, John glanced around the shop.

It wasn't a large shop but wasn't small either. There were things that Sherlock would buy and display in his flat. Then there were things that if John bought, Mary would never forgive him. It was indeed an oddity shop. As John came around the corner, he stopped and glanced up. Behind a glass was an outfit. Its age showed and the glass over the eyeholes gleamed in the display light. It was a musty brown outfit, likely leather. It was made for a tall person, at least a meter taller than John. It was a plague doctor outfit, well preserved. John's mind quickly went back to the bills.

On one of the bills was a plague doctor. A small theory collected itself and John pondered. Suppose the man that hired Sherlock was working with Frank to drum up more business. What better way to get a crowd outside the door than to have a well-regarded detective on the hunt for a peculiar raven and a man in a plague doctor outfit.

It seemed like a publicity stunt. With the American dollars and the hidden messages on them, it seemed as good a stunt as any. The plague doctor outfit was the cherry on top.

John was pulled away from his thoughts when Sherlock called for him. He returned to the counter to find the detailed pictures of the dreaded London Crow. Each one was drawn with meticulous handling. Not a smudge, marks from an erasers, or uneven lines, all drawn like an artist.

"London Crow, why's it called the London Crow if it's a raven?" John questioned. Frank shrugged.

"Suppose it's because of that old song, that bloke kept muttering under his breath when he was in," Frank answered. He then added, "Then again, crows and ravens are related. No difference that I see with them."

"London Crow is a song?" Sherlock glanced at Frank. Frank nodded.

"Yeah, old song, something Londoners never heard of unless they grew up with it. If you want I got a tape deck with it somewhere in the back," Frank pointed behind him to the door to the storage. Sherlock nods and Frank disappeared into the storage room. John looked around before he talked to Sherlock.

"I found a plague doctor outfit in the back," John said quietly. "Sherlock, you don't suppose this is a publicity stunt?"

"Too elaborate," Sherlock shook his head. He had his fair share of publicity stunts. Of course, he never cared for them. Unfortunately it always seemed like he was dragged into a stunt one way or another. Several times he was certain that someone was really in need only to be told otherwise. It had been a while since he had been tricked. "Something's missing, John, I don't know what it is."

"Maybe we can find if any of them bought a raven," John suggested. Sherlock pondered then nodded.

"Good idea, if they went through legal channels it'd show," Sherlock said. He then remembered some of the last publicity stunts. "But don't be surprised if they didn't get it legally."

"Alright gentlemen, I dug it out," called Frank as he reappeared with the tape deck. He sat the tape deck down onto the counter and played the tape. There was only one man singing, playing on a piano, and the age of the song showed. The song played similarly to the cult classic, Irving Berlin's "Puttin' on the Ritz".

Like Irving, the man singing had a distinct accent, neither a Londoner nor a Nottinghamshire. Neither Sherlock nor John could pin point the accent. It sounded country but at the same time, it had a twinge of upper crust.

* * *

Have you seen the doctor man?

The London Crow was his name,

A great hulking man with eyes,

That pierces even the Iron Maiden.

* * *

He lumbers through London in the night,

Always gone by dawn's light,

To where is a great question,

You'll never get an answer.

* * *

His eyes that which bewitch even the witches of the east.

His height keeps the beasts at bay.

Ghosts will turn white at the sight.

Bogeymen become scarce if they see him.

* * *

He'll haunt the ways that many have forgotten,

Those begotten might find him,

And never come around again.

The London Crow is no man,

No one quite knows what he is,

Other than the ravens adore him so.

* * *

And he will never answer a soul,

So no one will ever know.

Whatever he was, he isn't now.

* * *

And in any way that you see,

You'll never hear a peep.

The poor man will never speak,

He can never speak again,

Why is anyone's guess?

* * *

"I never heard of London Crow, even my parents never heard of it," Sherlock admitted. His parents never once listened to the song much less talked about it. Neither relative in the family ever mentioned the song, for that matter. Mycroft was never the type to partake in folksy music so Sherlock was back to square one. Frank rubbed the back of his head. He said, "Well, supposedly, this version is the more modern take. The original's supposed to be fully in Gaelic, in reference to the migrant workers coming down from the likes of Scotland and Ireland."

"So, how many versions are there?" John asked.

Frank shrugged, "Aside from the two, I don't really know. You'll have to ask that fellow, Alice Walker, he's from Galahad where it originates."

Sherlock tilted his head as he said, "Alice Walker?"

"Yeah, he's not very tall. I say taller than Mr. Watson," Frank described. "He had puffy black hair, grayed in areas. Fine lines too, looked a bit like me own dad. Green eyes, from the light I guess they're dark. A bit thin, too."

"Did he mention where he might be located, Mr. Dash?" Sherlock asked. Frank shrugged.

Frank explained, "Didn't give me much to work with. Just came in belligerent and calmed down when I talked to him. Never gave a hint other than he's from Galahad. Though, I doubt he'd go back there."

"What do you mean?" John eyed Frank. Frank rubbed his eyes. He yawned then said, "He kept looking back at the door, like someone was going to march in. He even paid me to use the backdoor. I suppose I became a bit suspicious when he gave me three hundred American dollars. But he hadn't been back in since, so I don't know what to tell you."

Now where have the duo heard that before?

"Mr. Dash, may we see where he went out?" Sherlock asked. Frank led them to the back where Alice had taken off that night. By the door outside was a small rubbish bin. Inside was a bracelet. The bracelet was from the mental institution Sinclair Riverside, a facility with the comforts of home. It was minimal security with the idea to allow those who reside in it to lead relatively normal lives. On it: WALKER, ALICE. It had his birthday which was February 14th 1948, which put Alice around 67 years old. He wasn't allergic to anything, food or medication wise, and there were special instructions where it stated that it was better to listen to Alice than to poke holes in his stories.

"Sherlock, what does it mean?" John looked the bracelet. Sherlock tilted his head as he studied the bracelet. The bracelet was plastic, yet wasn't thick or would cause discomfort to those who wore it. It would take some strength to tear it off though. From the looks of it, Alice might've used a knife.

Sherlock said to John, "It means we'll have to do some digging."

John was tasked with the bracelet and the duo reentered the shop.

"Do you have the dollars still?" Sherlock watched Frank move behind the counter, the sound of cluttering objects. He pulled out three freshly minted Benjamins and handed them to Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at them. Faintly he could see the lines on the bills like before. "Mr. Dash, by chance do you have a black light?" Sherlock asked him. Frank nodded, "Of course, um, hold on a minute."

Frank turned around and disappeared into the backroom again. John took the time to look at the bills and glanced up to Sherlock. "I suppose you have a theory?" John looked at him. Sherlock chewed on his lower lip as he tried to wrap his mind around the entirely of the case.

Alice Walker claimed that he was going to be targeted by a supposed dead man. There was a raven that was supposed to be the messenger of death. There were forums dedicated to the raven. And then there was the plague doctor on one of the bills. But since this was still early into the case, Sherlock hesitate in settling on a theory so soon. He shook his head at John, "I don't have one, John. This is a peculiar case."

"Aren't most of our cases peculiar?" John pointed out. That was true. Sherlock had been on some of the most interesting and rather odd cases in the past. Aside from the ones that made him famous, there were cases that left even Sherlock flabbergasted. One such case that came to mind was one that involved John and Sherlock sent on a wild goose chase. It was a missing husband and a wife who claimed no wrong doing. But then, as John and Sherlock soon discovered, it was a bizarre game the couple drummed up. Suffice to say, if Sherlock had any interest in dating or settling down left somewhere in the crevices of his brain, it had left the building and gone to Wales.

"Alright, one black light for the detectives," Frank muttered as he brought out a rather large black light. Though it was smaller than the industrial kind, it was still heavy and required to be plugged in. Once Frank plugged it in, Sherlock used it over the dollars. As before, there were hidden images. Unlike before, on top of the images of ravens flying around, there were small sentences that somewhat popped out. Hidden messages within the images, as if Alice had took time and effort to write them out. What the messages were, neither men could discern early.

Just as Sherlock was pondering, his and John's phones went off. They were called to a scene of a grisly murder. Apparently, a witness proclaimed a plague doctor attacked and killed the man. Sherlock then said to Frank, "I'm sorry sir, but these bills just became evidence. Also, we have to take the drawings."

"Evidence," Frank stared. Sherlock nodded as he took up the bills into his hands. "Well, that was three hundred dollars' worth," Frank pointed.

Sherlock eyed John and John finally realized what Sherlock was eyeing him about.

"Alright, suppose I give you an equivalent?" John offered. Frank took him up on his offer and Sherlock procured the three Benjamins and the drawings.

With the Benjamins and drawings in the safety of John's coat, the duo exited the shop. "If this was a stunt, then they must've paid dearly for it all to come together. Using a poor man to kick start it, the thought!" John muttered under his breath. Sherlock glanced behind toward him.

"A man was killed by someone in a plague doctor costume. If this was a stunt, then Lestrade would've told us," Sherlock pointed this out to John. John slowly nodded in agreement.

"Suppose you're right, it's not a stunt. Then what is it?" John asked. There were many ways someone could've set this up to attract Sherlock's attention. All they needed to do was pick each situation apart until they had enough to go on.

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged. "Suppose a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy about what, nothing comes to mind, Sherlock," John pointed at him. He stopped and remembered. "You never told me much about this case."

"I'll tell you along the way," Sherlock waved a hand and called out for a taxi. As the taxi pulled up to the curb, Sherlock got in and before John could do the same he glanced behind. He didn't have any reason for doing so, but it was like he was being watched. It wasn't Frank or any passerby. Above the shop's sign perched a raven. It was large and was cleaning itself, its head tucked in its wing. Before John could see its head, Sherlock called for him. John blinked and muttered under his breath before he entered the taxi and off they go. As the cabby drove, Sherlock explained to John what Alice told him. He told him about the bribe, the deaths, and the odd raven that seemed to bring death unto any who come across it.

"Sherlock, reasonably the poor man had a mental breakdown from his loses and has been fixated on a random raven," John shook his head. Sherlock thought that too, but often or not, the strangest cases tend to start of simple before swiftly becoming obvious. Suppose Alice had indeed gone mad from his loses, but murder was out of the question. Hopefully, this crime scene might give them something to work with. "I have a fiver that says someone took his fears and woes and using them to get your attention."

"I suppose that might be the case," Sherlock nodded. It wouldn't be the first time someone used a helpless party to stir Sherlock's interest. One of the first cases where Sherlock faced off with Moriarty, he used those who could not defend themselves, to force Sherlock to play one of his twisted games. There was a single causality and it was an old woman who was blind; she was trying to tell Sherlock about Moriarty but was killed shortly after. And the event that cemented the eternal battles between them was when Moriarty used John as one of his puppets. "Who would use a mental patient for this game, though?"

"Suppose the mental patient is the one organizing the game?" John suggested. The idea was Alice wasn't as feeble minded he portrayed himself to be. He was up to something and was using Sherlock to further it. Or he was using Sherlock as a chess piece because what villain wouldn't use a hero as a chess piece. "What if he wasn't sick?"

"Suppose that's true, why would he ask for my help?" Sherlock wondered. Maybe they were getting ahead of themselves. Maybe Alice wasn't lying to them. Since Alice never told Sherlock where he was staying, it would be hard to get into contact with him. John rubbed his chin, pondering. He stopped and pointed at Sherlock.

"Well, maybe he's one of them that like to make people like you run around until they show their true colors," John suggested. That could be a theory to work with.


	3. Alice Was Here

The taxi pulled up to the curb and John paid. The duo was met with Lestrade who was waiting for them on a pathway. "Ah, good, this one's up your alley," Lestrade said to them as they joined him. Sherlock nodded.

"Who found him?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade fumbled with his notepad before he answered."Some joggers out for a walk, found him hanging off the side the fountain," he gestured.

Lestrade led them to where Donovan and the others were. The area was tapped off and there was the body with an arm in the fountain. Putting gloves on, the duo approached the body. John looked at the head. It was bloodied; the man was bludgeoned from an object. It appeared he took several punches to the face beforehand, a black eye in his right. From a medical standpoint, he was bludgeoned long enough to cause his brain catastrophic damage, causing it to bleed. If he didn't die from the blood loss caused by the bludgeoning, the brain bleeding did. And looking at his feet, John noticed he lived long enough to push himself toward the fountain, likely to get away from the murderer.

"He bled to death internally around midnight," John summed.

Sherlock went through the body's pockets. He found the wallet and proceeded to check it. Inside was the ID for a Wallace Braham, aged 50. He was head administrator for none other than Sinclair Riverside. How interesting, this case has become.

"John," Sherlock showed him. John looked at it and winced. "Could've been Alice?" John questioned. Sherlock looked at the body. No, it couldn't. Sherlock doubted Alice would kill anyone. Someone else killed Wallace Braham, why is anyone's guess."John, what if someone wanted to pin it on Alice?" Sherlock suggested. Who else besides Wallace would know what Alice's triggers were, but those who worked to care for him?

"Suppose you're right, what would Wallace be killed for?" John shrugged. Being a head administrator, Wallace would've had far more control over Sinclair Riverside than anyone else. Suppose it was power play, someone wanted Wallace's spot and had the notions to kill for it. However, switching in a different head administrator so soon would be suspicious as it is. So, what else could've made someone kill Wallace?

"If not power play, what else?" Sherlock mused. John blinked and thought about it. His theory included drugs. A mental institution would've had plenty. Suppose whoever killed Wallace wanted drugs and Wallace wasn't having it. Or, as John thought more about it, Wallace was killed over a drugs sale gone wrong. Either he or his murderer wanted more, money or drugs, and fought. The murderer had the upper hand and brutally killed Wallace, taking the drugs and money with them. Similar happened before, likely it's happened again.

"Suppose Wallace was selling drugs under the table?" John suggested. Sherlock mulled over it and made it one of his theories. "Makes sense, but how does Alice play into it?" Sherlock wondered.

John pondered before he said, "Because he witnessed the murder. It makes sense now. He saw the killer, became spooked, and ran off."

"How did he get American bills, though?" Sherlock looked at him.

John chewed on his lips. "Perhaps they were given to him, to make him the suspect, a cover up," he suggested. It made sense.

Sherlock looked over to Lestrade. He asked, "Who witnessed the murder?"

"Ah, a mental patient," Lestrade thumbed through his notepad. He stopped when he got to the page. "One of the mental patients from Sinclair Riverside was said to have "seen him looming over Wallace". As part of his rehabilitation program, he worked as a clerk for the nearby library. He called us actually, but claimed we "wouldn't believe him". We tried to find him, but he's been missing since last night. Sinclair Riverside called me and confirmed that an Alice Walker had went missing after getting off his shift last night," Lestrade summed his notes for them. Sherlock and John exchanged looks.

"Sir, how did he witness the murder?" John asked.

Lestrade answered. "He was supposed to be walking through here to get to the bus scheduled for Sinclair Riverside around the time the murder happened," he said.

Sherlock then asked his question. "How did he contact you?" he asked.

Lestrade continued. "He used a business's phone. He never told us anything more than the murder. We tried to find him, but the business wasn't much help," Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock wrote it all down in his head before asking the question, "Did Sinclair Riverside say anything about Wallace Braham?"

"Only that it he was supposed to been at a dinner party last night with other administrators at a fancy restaurant, what they were discussing at the dinner party I couldn't get right then, but when we checked to confirm, there was no dinner party scheduled for last night nor the administrators know about it," Lestrade summed.

"So, what does it mean?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock studied the body. There had been to a reason for why Wallace was out here. Why, Sherlock aimed to find out.

Sherlock finally answered John. "It means we go to Sinclair Riverside," he said. He then glanced over to Lestrade, "Send him forthwith."

"Right, one corpse to Oxford," Lestrade nodded. He began to bark orders toward those coming toward the scene with the gurney.

John glanced around. He stopped when he noticed a peculiar raven on the sign for a sweets shop. It was a large black raven and from afar it looked like any other. But as it was cleaning its feathers, John noticed its beak was shining. Birds' beaks don't shine, do they?

"John," Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face. John blinked before looking at Sherlock. "Sherlock, don't you see the raven?"

"What raven?" Sherlock glanced around. John pointed. "It was sitting on the sweets shop's sign," he said. Sherlock glanced at the sign and found no bird there. "I don't see it, John," he shook his head.

John was miffed. "It was there, I know it was there, I saw it," he insisted. Sherlock checked around again, the bird wasn't there. John looked to where he had seen the raven. Like Sherlock, he didn't see it.

Sherlock looked at him. "Are you alright?" he asked.

John sighed and nodded. "I guess I let my imagination run off on me," he muttered.


	4. Looking For Clues

Sinclair Riverside was founded in the late 1800s. Originally it was an unkempt multistoried facility where those with mental deficiencies were forcibly housed against their will or those that society deemed unworthy. There were dozens of deaths due in part to the lack of training and proper funding. Some died of malnutrition and others died from experiments conducted, though there were many more that died differently, at least 3,000 had died out of the staggeringly 9,000. At least four workers of the facility were murdered. Two were killed by riot, one died of an outbreak, and a nurse was strangled with a bed sheet.

Around fall of 1945 it was closed for multiple violations amongst numerous complaints filed against it. For 52 years it remained closed until plans surfaced to tear down the facility and build another, significantly smaller, facility for low-risk patients in its of its design, it looks no different to any of the surrounding buildings. The empty areas on the land were remade to outside areas for the patients. The plan was for it to feel and look like a home, but still equipped to handle the fifteen patients that reside.

It opened in spring of 1999 and has been in operation for sixteen years. From what was available, there hadn't been any complaints from workers or patients. Patients reported faring much better in the facility than anywhere else. Some were even able to leave sooner than those in the other facilities. It was home sweet home to those who remain.

The taxi came to a stop in front of the Iron Gate, Sherlock and John exited it. Sherlock paid this time and the taxi disappeared into the oncoming traffic. Sherlock and John stood in front of the gate as they overlooked the facility.

"I'd never guess this a facility," John admitted as he looked toward a seating area outside where there were patients playing board games. Sherlock pushed the red button on the speaker on the cobbled wall. A voice came over it and said, "Hello, welcome to Sinclair Riverside Mental Facility, how may I help you today?"

"Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I came here to speak with Sara Margery," Sherlock spoke.

The voice came on again."Yes, I do see a Sherlock Holmes on the in-coming list. Please wait while I contact Miss Margery," it said.

Sherlock glanced at John. John glanced back. "Too small a facility for Wallace to do anything," John noted. Sherlock's light blue eyes moved toward the facility. It was small enough that suppose Wallace would've been caught easily if he did in fact try to sell the facility's medications. Then, why else would Wallace be killed?

Why would he lie about going to a dinner with the administrators?

Wallace wasn't married. Divorced three times and from what Sherlock noted, hasn't found anyone after his third divorce, he had been taking to his single life. Or perhaps he was seeing someone and had to make a lie to cover it up. But then, why would he cover it up?

Suppose Wallace had a change of heart, metaphorically speaking, and had decided to move away from women entirely. Suppose he had a lover and didn't want to tell anyone about him for fear of unsolicited reprisal, that was why he lied, to hide the fact. Then, why hadn't Sherlock found any clues around the crime scene to support that?

No, Wallace didn't have a lover. Being divorce three times had presumably killed any remaining interest left in him and he was content to running the facility until the end of his days. If he lied about the dinner, then he didn't want anyone to know what he was doing, if not selling drugs then what if he were buying them. Suppose he had a habit, a nasty and highly illegal one, and he had to keep it on the low. Yet, Sherlock found some money in Wallace's wallet. He didn't find any American dollars, just Euros, so it meant whoever killed Wallace had American dollars. As for why the killer had American dollars, well aside from savvy currency exchange, Sherlock hadn't a clue on that.

John had his own thoughts on the matter. Wallace was clearly meeting someone and it involved American dollars. Currency exchanges this year had favored American over the Euro. How it involved Wallace, well, John hedged that Wallace was buying drugs for personal use. Being divorced three times might've made him take to an otherwise illegal and highly dangerous vice. A buy went wrong. Wallace was planning to buy drugs but his dealer had a different thought.

But both men were left wandering how Alice figured into it.

Sherlock purported that Alice witnessed the heinous crime. His traumatized mind, still fevered with thoughts about the accursed London Crow and the plague doctor, mistook the murderer as the plague doctor. Unable to distinguish reality from fiction, Alice fled into the night, called LPD, and hid until he felt compelled to contact Sherlock. He acquired the American dollars from the murderer as means to hush him or he stole them as proof. Since Alice is in hiding, likely avoiding Sinclair Riverside amid his own notions, Sherlock couldn't tell unless he went and stalked about looking for him.

John was always a skeptic. He had to be for the sake of his own integrity. There were things he understood and things that stumped him. This was one of them. He usually had a thought about cases, but this was something different. It could've very well been a drug deal gone badly, but Lestrade and the others didn't find any traces of drugs at the scene. There would've been at least a needle or two, or whatever drug Wallace was keen for. As for Alice being involved, John had to cover the basics. Suppose Alice killed Wallace. For whatever reason, Wallace was asked by Alice to meet him after work. Being a head administrator, Wallace would've obliged. Wallace would wait in the park until Alice arrived. They would've fought for a bit until Alice eventually killed him. They never did find what was used to bludgeon Wallace. The park was checked, no stone left unturned, nothing in the park could've been used to kill Wallace. So it meant whatever Alice used, he took with him.

The duo was met with more roadblocks. The park was a letdown. Neither a shred of evidence for Sherlock to eye nor any lead on the weapon used to kill Wallace. Blood spatter was consistent with a fight, but there wasn't any blood elsewhere. This meant the killer had blood on their clothes; it also meant they would be quick to change out of their clothes and wash their faces if they hadn't already. But if the killer was also a part of Sinclair Riverside, then who had reason to kill Wallace?

Neither Sherlock nor John could be conclusive with their theories about Alice. Alice had them mad. For men like them, they were used to incomplete cases and theories that have holes in them. But today, that was changing. They wanted to know which of their set of theories was correct if any. Alice had to factor in somehow. Some reason he fled from the scene. Something or someone frightened him enough for him to go into hiding and call on Sherlock for help. But then, the two had their own shared conundrum. Sherlock had met Alice, paid by him, and he was the sole suspect in the murder. John knew nothing but what Sherlock told him. If any of theories that Sherlock has is anything to say, if someone from Sinclair Riverside did in fact kill Wallace, then Alice's life might be in danger as he witnessed it. It meant Alice knows the killer and the killer knows of Alice talks then they would be caught. Hence, it was the reason why Alice is in hiding, afraid, and his trauma becoming exacerbated. In another theory that connected to the previous, it also meant that the killer knew what would make Alice afraid. They knew where Alice worked and knew he would come through the park to head to the bus stop afterwards. They used his fears against him to ensure he would never say a word.

The theories were swirling in the men's heads. Neither which stuck because the two doubted each one. They didn't have much to work with and without Alice to verify any of it; it was something that was going to be difficult to process.

"I'm admitting it now, I'm stumped," John sighed as he looked over at Sherlock.

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip as he attempted to work through his theories. "What am I missing?" he only said.

John shrugged. He stopped when he remembered. "Sherlock, Alice said a plague doctor killed him," he pointed. Sherlock nodded. John continued, "What if there was some truth to it?"

"What if someone _was_ in a plague doctor costume," Sherlock's eyes gleamed with intrigue. John nodded.

"Exactly, someone wore it. It's clever. Whoever killed Wallace wore it so they wouldn't have to worry about the blood spatter," John explained. Sherlock agreed. Sherlock then added, "It wouldn't make sense for Alice to wear a costume like that. He'd be deathly afraid of it as is."

"Then, why would someone wear one in the first place?" John wondered. Sherlock blinked. It made no sense for anyone to wear one. October 31st was next week. Even then, Halloween wasn't a holiday well celebrated in Briton. Aside from few exceptions, it was an American tradition. Hold on, now.

Before Sherlock's mind could even fathom the newly formed theories, he was pulled away by the appearance of Sara Margery. She was in her fifties, thin frame, brunette hair tied in a bun, and liked add cream and sugar to her team.

"I'm dreadfully sorry for being late," she apologized to them as she opened the gate for them. "I was in a meeting. Mr. Lestrade told me to expect you."

They entered the threshold of the facility and were led toward the entrance. "Ma'am, do you know any particular reason why Wallace might lie about going to a dinner?" John asked Sara. Sara pondered this and shrugged.

"I don't know why Wally would lie about such thing," Sara said. Sherlock then asked, "Was he in any particular trouble, financially or otherwise?"

"Ah, no, I don't think so. He'd tell if he was," Sara answered. She opened the doors for them and they entered the facility. Unlike the staunch white and soft lighted counterparts, Sinclair Riverside looked like an average home in the burbs. The wood was mahogany and the wall was a dark green color. Even the stairs were polished. "Um, I hate to be a bother," Sara stopped. She looked at them worryingly. "Have they found Mr. Walker?"

Sherlock and John looked at each other briefly. It was better to lie now than deal with a chance that Alice's life was in danger or he became aware that they were in Sinclair Riverside. "No, ma'am, they haven't, yet," John shook his head. Sherlock agreed.

Sara said to them, "I hope he's alright. It's not like him at all."

"Ma'am, what was his relationship with Wallace?" John asked her. Sara pondered before she replied.

"They all loved Wally. Wally treated them with more respect they'll ever get anywhere else. Mr. Walker never had any problems with Wally. And Wally never had any problems with him," she insisted. Sherlock and John looked at each other briefly.

"Ma'am, has there been anyone who might've had less than friendly thoughts about Wallace?" John continued. Sara shook her head. Sherlock asked her, "Then, why would he lie?"

"I honestly don't know. He never had any problems. And before you get any ideas, Mr. Walker would never hurt Wally," Sara vehemently said. Sherlock nodded and then asked, "Did Alice have any friends?"

"Oh, he was a shy fellow. He kept to himself mostly. We were trying to get him to branch out though. It's been slow, though," Sara frowned. She led them toward the main area where there were empty chairs. Plump to stools, there were seats for any kind of person.

"Ma'am, I don't wish to imply anything, but how many people know what Alice's triggers are," John gestured. He then added, "Such as ravens and plague doctors."

"Only the nurses, doctors, and therapists," Sara counted with her fingers. She stopped. "You don't think anyone here could've done it, could you?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Sherlock gestured. Sara frowned. She said, "We don't allow anything that causes triggers. But today I caught one of our patients wearing a bird mask."

"What happened?" Sherlock leaned in. Sara rubbed her nose. "Well, it was breakfast and I went to wake everyone up. I go into one of the rooms and one of our patients was sleeping with a bird mask on his face!"

"Why was he wearing it?" John blinked. Sara told him, "He said good things happen when you wear it. I would've taken it, but since Wally's not here and we're on notice until we can shuffle around positions, I was unable to do anything. He still has it and I made them aware of it."

"May we meet him?" Sherlock inquired. Sara pondered before she nodded. "Ah, yes, you may, follow me," she gestured.

"Please excuse him, detectives; he's got quite an imagination," Sara explained to them as she led them up the stairs toward the back room. Lenny Carmichael was an intellectual forty-something year old man who studied aboard, he was close to get his masters when the accident occurred. A careless driver hit him head on as he biked his way home after having a speech in Oxford, leaving him for dead. Miraculously, he held on long enough before he was taken by paramedics. Unfortunately, while he had broken bones and a ruptured spleen, he had taken a hit to the head. It was enough to cause the brain to swell and it took hours with surgery to stop the swelling, but by then the damage was done. Lenny could not recover and was moved into the facility.

The once studious man with a record attendance had been regressed into that of a simple man with the mind of a child. And as Sara pointed out, he didn't notice the difference even after being moved into the facility.

He liked his Legos, his GIs, and adored books with pictures in them. His room was filled to the brim with pictures taken out of magazines. Cars, people, buildings, to name a few of the pictures that hung on his wall. Recently he got into model planes and began to hang some of the ones he made from the ceiling.

As Sara led them to the door, she stopped and turned to them. "He's quite friendly. He never lashed out toward anyone. However, as a precaution, I recommend you to not mention his days as Oxford," she said as she began to knock on the door. "Lenny, dear, you have some guests who want to talk to you!"

There were sounds of shuffling as someone stood behind the door and rattled the door knob. Slowly opening it, a man with frayed hair stuck his head out, blinking at the three. Sara smiled and gestured to Sherlock and John. She said to Lenny, "Would it be okay if they entered your room, Lenny?"

"Okay," Lenny murmured as he opened the door wide enough for Sherlock and John to pass through. Upon entering the room, Sherlock noticed his face on the wall. The picture was from one of his earlier cases with John. John, too, noticed a picture of him on the wall, this one was when he was almost burnt alive in a pile of wood on one of the cases.

Lenny shuffled toward his desk where an incomplete framework of a Blackhawk rested. He sat down and looked to Sherlock and John. Sherlock's light blue eyes darted around the room. He was looking for any sort of clue. If there was something, it would've been here. Lenny had a plague doctor costume, where it was, Sherlock didn't know. But the fact he only started to wear it today meant that something was amiss. Either it was coincidence or something else. His eyes stopped when he noticed vague handprints on the windowsill. They were bloodied and from where Sherlock was looking, the handprints indicated that someone came through the window.

Sherlock cleared his throat and asked Lenny, "Lenny, what do you know of plague doctor costume?"

"Costume…?" Lenny stared at him confusingly. He turned to his attention to the Blackhawk and began to piece part of the right wing together. "I don't have a costume."

"Someone was wearing one last night. A man got hurt and it was said someone in a plague doctor costume attacked him," Sherlock omitted the detail about Wallace's death. It was better if he did, for the sake of the case and to keep Lenny calm. Lenny shrugged and replied, "It was dinner time."

"Someone snuck out of your window," Sherlock gestured with his hands. Lenny blinked and rested a part of the fuselage on the newspaper. His eyes darted around the room and shook his head.

Lenny then said, "But it wasn't me."

Sherlock turned his head slightly as John had found the porcelain bird mask under Lenny's bed. Lenny took notice to the mask and had a goofy smile on his face. He slowly rose from his seat and shuffled toward John. John allowed Lenny to take the mask into his hands and put it on. Sherlock noticed on the tip of the beak was faint blood spatter.

John glanced at Lenny, "But you said you didn't have a costume."

Lenny turned his head toward John. John had to step back to avoid being poked by the nose. Lenny said, "This isn't a costume."

"Then, what is it, Lenny?" Sherlock gestured. Lenny turned around to face him. Lenny then told him, "Georgie said it was magic!"

"Magic," John stood there dumbfounded. "What do you mean magic?"

"Every time you wear it, something good happens," Lenny remembered. "You have to wear it at midnight or it won't work."

"And who is Georgie?" Sherlock asked him. Lenny rubbed the side of his head as he said, "Oh, he works here. He's usually uptight. At least I know he likes me a little."

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock asked. Lenny replied, "He gave me this."

John glanced at Sherlock and Sherlock slowly nodded his head as he stared at Lenny. He then said to Lenny, "Lenny, when did he give it to you?"

"Last night," Lenny answered. A lightbulb lit up in Sherlock's head as he realized what it meant for his case. John noticed and cleared his throat. Lenny turned to him as he asked, "Lenny, could we perhaps borrow your magic?"

Lenny stared at him quizzically. John explained. "Um, we need to find out who hurt this man, and we were hoping your magic could help us," he gestured with his hands. Lenny continued to stare. He shook his head, "But, this is mine."

"Suppose a trade," Sherlock then suggested as he stepped near John. "Quid pro quo if you like."

"A trade…?" Lenny blinked. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock chewed on his lip until an idea came up. He cleared his throat as he said to Lenny, "My scarf is magical too."

"Oh," Lenny's eyes lit up. He then nodded. He stopped and asked, "What does it do?"

Sherlock pondered. He never did this before. It was decided then and he said, "If you wear it, it'll keep the Boogie Man away."

"The Boogie Man," Lenny said with a chill. He nodded. "I hate the Boogie Man."

"Then, is it a deal?" Sherlock gestured. Lenny tilted his head and nodded. He pulled off the mask and held it out for Sherlock. Sherlock took it into his hand as John pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket to put the mask in. As promised, Sherlock pulled off his scarf and handed it to Lenny who carefully took it into his arms. With a big smile, Lenny then draped the scarf around his shoulders.

The two exited the room and met with Sara. Sherlock asked her, "Who is Georgie?"


	5. I'm Going Slightly Mad

George "Georgie" Morgan was a man in his thirties. He had dirty blond hair and sun kissed skin from his days as a surfer in Hawaii, hazelnut eyes and muscles to boot. His days as a surfer ended when he had an accident one competition that twisted his knee and thus rendered him unable to surf anymore. He worked oddball jobs here and there, but none of them were satisfying or mildly interesting. Eventually he ended up in his current position and remained because it paid better and he had no other work lined up for him. He was stuck in this position until an opportunity surfaces. As a nurse his job was simple. He gave patients their medicine; he kept a close eye on them, and generally helped with their rehabilitation programs.

He did his job as good as any. But it was also very tiring at times when some of the patients start to cause problems. It didn't help his knee never did heal properly from the accident so it required him to juggle pills and his cane. And the painkillers weren't of any help either, so George was literary biting bullets to avoid breaking down from the pain. He tried to keep face with the facility and the patients but the pain was enough for him to snap at some once a while.

Now, here came a detective and his assistant bombarding him with inquires about Alice and Wallace.

He was leaning on his cane and looked at them as they stood there with looks on their face.

"Well, what do you want?" he sharply asked.

Sherlock answered with his own question, "Where did you get the bird mask?"

"What're you asking about the mask?" George asked.

Sherlock replied, "You were aware of Mr. Walker's triggers and yet you have it, why?"

George scoffed at them. He explained. "I found it after Alice disappeared, alright?" he looked at Sherlock and John. "I found it by the backdoor. We're no strangers to them smuggling things in when they shouldn't so I thought nothing about it. I was going to throw it out, but what was the point then with Alice gone. Lenny was irritating me yesterday so I figured the mask would keep him busy. All I had to do was tell him that it did good things if he wore it."

"You found it by the backdoor, when?" Sherlock pressed him.

George groaned as he rubbed his eyes. "Around dinner time, I was getting me something to drink when I noticed it tucked under the table. I don't know how it got there," he insisted.

John studied him. It was apparent that he couldn't do anything without his cane. Painkillers or no painkillers, he would've had to rely on it. If he killed Wallace then he had to have gone out the backdoor. John thought about the bloodied fingerprints and how they were coming into Lenny's room. George couldn't have gone up on the building by himself. So, what's missing?

"Did you have problems with either Alice or Wallace, perhaps both?" Sherlock eyed George.

George chortled at him. "Oh, you think I killed Wallace?" George snorted. He managed to stop long enough to look at Sherlock sternly. "I didn't kill him if that's what you're inferencing. I didn't like him, yeah, but I didn't kill him. As for Alice, he kept to himself mostly, always been since he came here a few years back. Why would I have a problem with him?" he pointed.

"Why would Wallace lie about his whereabouts?" Sherlock gestured.

George pondered this. He answered. "Wallace was never the type to socialize with anyone, really. He's always been by the books sort of man. I always knew he was bullshitting. Never knew what, but he was. He was always someone who would keep secrets," he said.

So, Wallace was keeping secrets. What secrets, neither of the men knew. What were they was anyone's guess. Suppose he was indeed doing something illegal that gotten him killed. What "illegal" thing he could've done ranged from dealing drugs, laundering money, to selling patient information on the black market, the problem was _which_ of these was he doing.

"Was he having money problems, was medicine going missing?" Sherlock asked George.

George pondered before he answered. "Money problems, sure, everyone's been having money problems. As for whether he might've been taking from the pot, I don't have access to finances, so I don't know. As for the medicine, we did have a minor problem. We were supposed to receive two cases worth of prescriptions but only one case turned up. We had to call in a favor to another institute until we worked out the problem. The shipping company claimed we received both cases, but we could never find the other one," he scratched his head.

A missing case with prescriptions that never turned up, now this was getting interesting.

John pointed at George. "But aren't you issued a tracking number?" he asked.

George nodded. "We were. Because of the nature, we had two tracking numbers for the cases. But when we checked, it said both arrived," John heard him say.

"So, you never found the case at all, could've it been stolen?" John continued.

George shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, it's plausible that someone might've worked the courage to hijack a case; they were on our front steps. But why didn't they take both cases if that was the case?" George shrugged.

It made sense. Or maybe there was a reason why only one case went missing.

"Who was there when the shipment arrived?" Sherlock looked at George.

George chewed on his lip as he tried to think back. "Oh, uh, me, Sara, Wallace, and Russel," George counted with his fingers. "The patients went out on a field trip with the others. We stayed back to keep an eye out for the shipment."

"Have you checked the surveillance?" John inquired.

George sighed. "Supposedly, cameras mean that we don't trust the patients. So aside from the camera in the medicine locker, we were shit out of luck," George rolled his eyes. He stopped when he remember. "Actually, one of the patients had to stay back. Stomachache, he had. I think it was Alice, his room overlooked the steps where the shipment would've been," George's eyes lit up.

Sherlock and John gave each other a look. "Um, you mean the one with the tree near it?" John gestured.

George nodded. "Yeah, the elm tree," George affirmed.

"Did he say anything about the missing case?" Sherlock gestured.

George frowned. "No. We went to ask him but he insisted he saw nothing. Something rattled him, I think. He never told his therapist either. She even tried hypnotherapy once just to get him to talk about it. He never did though. I always thought he was hiding something. Never knew what though," he sighed. His frown didn't go away. "The night after, everyone was asleep, we heard him crying out. Ran into his room to find him huddled in the corner, cowering in total fear, he claimed he saw a man dressed as a plague doctor standing over hm. Looked and found nothing. But he _was_ afraid, I could see it in his eyes, he knew what he saw. The doctors had us change his prescription, said it was a side effect."

"Did the other patients say anything?" Sherlock inquired.

George thought back. "We asked them. Well, the ones who were capable. They claimed they heard a man talking in Alice's room. Said things like: "You killed me", "They will abandon you", and "No one will believe you". Of course, Alice never confirmed. So, the doctors thought he was going into a psychosis. Honestly, though, I'm gonna be straight with you. Something ain't right here," he shook his head.

John then asked, "Who would have access to patient files?"

"Well, only Wallace. Doctors only get the medical side. Therapists get the mental side. We nurses get whatever conditions we have to follow and whatever else they're willing to tell us about a patient," George shrugged.

He heard Sherlock say, "Were you made aware of Alice's triggers?"

"Of course, we know everyone's triggers. We have to for the safety of our staff. Alice's is the easiest one of the bunch, really," George responded.

"A final question, George, does anyone have American dollars or access to them?" Sherlock asked.

George pondered. "Well, the only person would make sense to have them is Wallace. He usually travels abroad time to time for conferences," he replied. He then mentioned, "He did go to America last month, New York City. He might've had a few bills left. He said a lot of places in the downtown area only take cash."


	6. Can't You See it

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John asked him as they were heading toward Wallace's office.

Sherlock had a look about him. He always had that look when he was thinking. He was thinking about what George had told them, about Wallace and Alice. It was supposed to make sense, but there were bits and pieces that made no sense. Yet, it seemed like an open shut case. Wallace stolen the second case of prescription to be sold, was killed for his effort. Alice witnessed it and ran off because the perpetrator wore a plague doctor costume which would've frightened the man.

It was a difficult case for Sherlock. He will admit he was used to a bit of a roundabout in his cases. Some were streamlined while others were complicated. Complicated by people like Irene Alders or complicated by lack of evidence, to say a few. But this case had his mind in a twist. He just didn't know what was causing it. It pained him dearly, though. A man who was known for being the Great Detective was never the type to like being confused or at a loss. It was his kryptonite.

"We didn't find a single pill at the crime scene, did we?" Sherlock managed to say.

John thought back and shook his head. They never found any pills or any opiates in the park where Wallace was found. Something was missing. Perhaps it wasn't about the drugs at all. Perhaps it was blackmail. Someone stole the second case and they didn't want anyone to know. Whoever found out had to be handsomely paid for until a certain point. If not Alice, then who else had to gain from the blackmail?

It irritated Sherlock. If not for the plague doctor and the fevered talks of the London Crow, it would've been a simple case. But, since Alice rightfully doesn't want to be found nor will he resurface under the threat of the purported resurrection of Frank Colton, Sherlock was left with little to go on. And it bothered him. "Then, suppose its blackmail?"

"Means someone else had to know about the theft," John pointed out to Sherlock.

Sherlock slowly nodded and frowned. He tried everything to his name to come up with a theory. But all his theories had to be thrown out when he concluded it wasn't George that had gone through Lenny's window. His knee would've never allowed him to bend that low much less handle going up the building. One could've said that George was taking stronger medication the night of the murder, but his appearance and body language told otherwise. He might've been popping painkillers, but it was not him that had been through that window.

"We need Alice," John reminded him.

They needed Alice to confirm or to deny the little facts they had. But, as mentioned, they couldn't find Alice. He was in the wind as far as they know. And they couldn't risk having Lestrade sending men looking for him either. Alice was afraid for his life and as human nature goes he will fight tooth and nail to keep from being discovered. However, when Sherlock met with Alice earlier, Sherlock couldn't rightly tell much about him other than that he indeed was married at least once. His accent was another clue, but with a city like London, it was bound to be lost in the sea of various accents. So, what were they supposed to do?

"John, have a look in his room, won't you?" Sherlock looked at him. John nodded. Alice would've kept some possessions in his room, it was only normal. Since it was low-security, John was sure he'd find at least a dozen or so leads to go on. Hopefully, one of them will help find Alice. "I'll go have a look in Wallace's office."

"Right," John nodded. He watched as Sherlock entered Wallace's room and he turned and headed down the hall. Alice's room was Room 14 and opening it with his gloved hand, John glanced around the room. Like Lenny's room it was small, not small that those with claustrophobia would suffer in, but it wasn't a room for those with big tellys. Alice's iron framed bed was by the wall on John's right, away from the window and away from the doors. His closet consisted of clothes one would find in a sixty-something year old man's closet. His dresser was segmented. Top drawer was his underwear. Second drawer was his shirts. Third draw was his non-dress pants. The fourth and final contained socks, some were black and thick wool while others were white and thin, likely for the change of seasons, and to keep with the dusty color scheme of Alice's clothes.

John checked Alice's bedside. Under his bed were more shoes, some were simple shoes and others were teal colored slippers. As John looked, he noticed a black shadow in the far back of the bed. On his knees he slid under the bed and grabbed it. It was a black shoe box. Inside were old photographs, some were Alice in his younger days, some were of his late family, and one particular photograph was of Alice and Frank. Under the photographs was a policeman's badge. It sigil was a creek and John was baffled at the words that wrapped around the sigil. It was not Latin as most badges were, instead, it was Gaelic. John never had the luxury of learning it, so he couldn't translate it.

But what caught John's eye most was the long crack down the badge. The way it looked, it was as if it was intentionally cracked. The crack went through the Galahad Stationhouse, through the creek, and through the words. The crack was thick enough to distort the words. So even if John knew Gaelic, it would've been a choppy translation at best.

John continued to shift through the box until he found a small journal. Of course, majority of its contents were in Gaelic. The only pages that were English were ones made when Alice was first admitted. The first institution he went to was apparently restrictive and wouldn't allow him to have some of his possessions due to fear of setting off other patients, namely the cracked badge. But Alice refused to rid of it and so caused him to be transferred out. When he arrived at Sinclair Riverside, he was awestruck they would allow him to keep his only possessions, granted he was not allowed to wear or to show anyone his badge. As John read the only English pages, it seemed Alice was calming down. His treatment was working and his therapy was successful. And he couldn't be happier.

But as John read on, it all changed when he got to the pages that were dated when the second shipment of prescription went missing, from being predominately English, it switched back to Gaelic and the penmanship declined. He was writing these pages as quickly as he could and he didn't want anyone to know what it meant. He was afraid, as George told them. Afraid of what or who, John wanted to know.

He shifted through the pages toward when Alice disappeared and Wallace was murdered. It switched back to English and it appeared to be a sonnet. John didn't understand the contexts but from it looked, it looked to be about the plague doctor or Frank Colton as it stood. John theorized that Alice witnessed the murderer at his bedside and this was his way of coping and if John was reading it correctly, it was supposed to be evidence. Evidence of a cover up that had Alice frightened.

* * *

There was a doctor man

Who wandered the streets of London alone?

Always seen in the night and gone by dawn's light.

No one can see him unless they look in forgotten places,

And he will be there waiting for them.

* * *

Heed me, oh heed me,

The doctor man lurks in every corner.

Be warned for he is no man.

What is he no one will know?

He bellows into the night.

* * *

He will frighten those who witness him.

Ravens adore him so.

And people fear him for he is death.

What is he really?

* * *

A man in a mask comes to bask in glory,

A soul who lost his way and now only bellows in agony.

Fellows alike can never reason with the doctor man.

He can never be found.

Where he lurks no one knows.

* * *

Heed me, oh heed me,

You can never see him in the light.

The only way to see is in the night.

Where he prays in sight,

Alone in the dark and praying for an end to his plight,

Men see him as the blight.

* * *

"Come and get him before he escapes!"

They cry as they try to fight him.

They all felled one by one.

And now he is alone once more.

* * *

Where will the doctor man go from here?

He will hide in the dark where he will lament.

He will fight the temptations that lurk deep within.

He will fight the desire that hungers.

He will fight until it is his turn to burn.

* * *

Heed me, oh heed me,

The doctor man that lurks in the darkness,

Whose eyes burn in anguish,

And his mind in tatters,

His body battered and bruised and the shell of a former man.

* * *

Heed me for when I say,

He will not delay for anyone.

When it is his time he will disappear into yonder.

Never to be seen until night approaches,

Where he will pray for the end of his suffering,

And so God will forgive him for his misgivings.

* * *

Heed me, oh heed me,

Whatever you do,

Dare not challenge his might,

Or you shall never make it through the night.

You will become another blight that wanders.

Never will you see the light again.

* * *

Alone in the darkness where you will stay.

Forever and ever until the end of time,

See the light and it will burn you,

Dare look upon the sun and you will cease.

* * *

Heed me, oh heed me,

Dare not challenge his might,

Stay far from the blight.

Stay away from the ravens that hide amongst the light.

His ravens bear the message of gloom.

* * *

Heed them for they speak.

They will tell you your fate and others alike.

But dare not harm them for they will harm you.

They will usher his return so quickly,

You will not be able to speak as he claims you too.

* * *

He will turn you into a raven.

Capable of only lamenting as you are forced to bear the dreadful news.

He will surely make you do such task as he sees fit.

He knows you cannot abscond so that is that!

In order to end his tyranny, heed me now!

* * *

The light hides him,

The night is his garden,

Break them apart and he will have to face you.

To kill such great man,

You must understand,

Who he was no longer applies.

* * *

He has lost the way,

Now end him!

Dare not show fear,

Or he will wield as a weapon.

Heed me, oh heed me,

Heed me for I am Death.


	7. Everyone Has Standards

Wallace's office looked like your typical administrator's office. It was roomy, had handcrafted furniture, his desk was custom made from reading the proudly displayed label. It was painted differently from the rest of the building and it looked to be custom pained too. For someone like Wallace, it seemed out of touch from what Sherlock had gathered about the man.

Sherlock went to his desk where each of the drawers was locked. Interestingly, each lock required a different key. Why would anyone need different keys for their drawers?

True, given that some of the patients or even the staff might have a nasty habit of thieving; it was still baffling for Sherlock. And of course, Sherlock couldn't find the keys. There weren't any keys at the crime scene, so Sherlock established they were either stolen or Wallace was keen on leaving his keys behind when he was doing something highly illegal. Since Sherlock had no time to call on a locksmith, he decided to do something only he would do.

There was a reason Sherlock kept his hair the way it was. He was never a stylist and he abhorred the thought of someone touching him, so he usually just washed his hair and occasionally run a comb through it to rid of the tangles that accumulate. But, the reason he kept his hair the way it was, was because he could hide a bobbin or two in it. It was something he always done and it helped him immensely. Before John even entered the picture, he had been using bobbins to get out of situations. Since John worked with him, often or not, Sherlock hadn't needed the bobbins. It didn't mean he would stop carrying them in his hair that would be foolish.

Sherlock carefully combed his hair, prying loose two of the bobbins and knelt by the drawers. How Sherlock learned to pick locks was an easy story for anyone to grasp. When they were younger, Sherlock and Mycroft had the nasty habit of causing each other grief. It would be considered sibling rivalry, but for the duo it was classic warfare. Because of Mycroft's age, he would normally be the first one home before Sherlock. Their parents were often out and about, working and couple shenanigans (Sherlock's term), so it was usually just the two of them. Since Mycroft was home first, he had the nasty habit of locking Sherlock out of their home and taking up the spare keys.

Growing tired of Mycroft taking his keys and locking him out, Sherlock developed the skill of pick locking. If Mycroft wouldn't let him in, then he'll just let _himself_ in. Their mother eventually found out what happened. Mycroft was grounded. Sherlock learned a neat skill. It was a win-win, well, for Sherlock. Mycroft vowed revenge of course.

Sherlock mumbled under his breath as he used the bobbins. With work, Sherlock picked open all the drawers. He opened the first open to find files. None of them were of any interest or otherwise useful. The second drawer contained a bottle of Advil and a few bags of sweets. Wallace fancied red licorice and judging from the four large bags worth of them, he had the sweet tooth of a schoolboy.

The third drawer contained a stress ball and a bottle of hand cream. Wallace had gotten nasty hand cramps from writing out daily reports and the stress he was under as an administrator was enough to warrant the stress ball. The fifth drawer looked to be the contraband drawer of a headmaster. There were rubber balls, little finger puppets of the monarchy, limerick books, playing cards, and crude or otherwise curious drawings.

One of the drawings caught Sherlock's eye as he reached into the drawer to take it. It was the picture of a plague doctor, drawn with a black thin-tipped marker. Sherlock was certain it was Alice's as he studied it. He studied it attentively, knowing Alice there had to been hidden messages. But, from it stood, it was an ordinary picture. Since there was no date, Sherlock couldn't tell when it was made. Knowing the date would've helped Sherlock's theory. Suppose Alice had made the picture after the incident George told them about. What if it was a clue and whoever was responsible didn't want anyone to second guess.

Sherlock studied the picture again. There was no harm. And, it would be unlike Sherlock if he didn't check things twice or more. They wouldn't've called him the Great Detective if he didn't. As Sherlock looked, it slowly came to him. He was expectant of Alice hiding hidden messages in his drawings. But, what if the drawing itself was the message. Sherlock eyed the paper.

If he was wrong, he could malformed the evidence. But if he was right, then Alice's message would come to light. Using his cellphone, Sherlock snapped a picture of the drawing as a reference. Afterward, he began the tedious process of folding the drawing. Sherlock was not the type to fall under pressure. Even if it was pressing down on him, like no man asked for.

As Sherlock slowly folded the paper, he noticed the drawing was changing. Slowly, wings started to appear. Eventually, with Sherlock holding his breath, the drawing changed into a raven. The raven was drawn that looked like it was flying into the invisible wall of the paper. Its beak was wide open and faint words were in it: HELP ME, HE'S GOING TO KILL ME!

"Clever," Sherlock murmured under his breath. He snapped a photo of the raven, words and all, before it came to him. Sherlock glanced at the bird mask that he carried into the office with him and it looked at the reference picture. It wasn't just any mask that Alice drew. He drew _that_ mask, fine lines and all. Sherlock quickly texted Lestrade all the details that he found, the evidences that he found, and that Lestrade must come to Sinclair Riverside to claim them.

"Alright Alice, who is going to kill you," Sherlock muttered. He opened the final drawer of the desk to find more paper. They were marked with the Sinclair Riverside stamp and appeared to been used. Sherlock dug through to find that these weren't particular notes and reports that Wallace would be accustomed to writing. They weren't even from the patients or staff. Some of them were in Wallace's handwriting but the others weren't, but something about them gave Sherlock a cold feeling. He pulled out the papers and looked through them. There were phone numbers, locations, times, names, and how much.

Then, Sherlock found letters in the stack of papers. They were inquires, from someone to Wallace. The perpetrator was asking Wallace specifically about Alice. They were afraid that Alice would speak up about the theft and that they would be sentenced for it. Wallace had apparently told them that it would've been taken care of if they followed the plan. His plan was to use Alice's triggers to get him switched to stronger medication that would keep him in a drugged state. It worked from what Sherlock noted.

"Use the costume I bought, dump it when you can," Sherlock read the last line of the letter.

Well, now how about that?

Sherlock frowned. Alice's behavior was easily explained now. And Sherlock wasn't happy at all. He worried, worried about Alice, his medications plus his trauma had driven him mad. And because of these two he might not ever be found again. Even Sherlock knew enemies who would find that low and abhorrent.

As Sherlock thumbed through the papers, he stopped when he saw a single page that wasn't like the rest. It was Alice's handwriting. Sherlock could tell that it was purposely placed with the rest. Wallace was learning more about Alice's triggers and sending off what he learned to the perpetrator.

* * *

His eyes were silver as the ingots I carry.

He is as tall as the clock tower.

He bears the face of the bird.

He wears the cloak of darkness.

And he lingers in the midnight sun.

* * *

He can never be seen in the day.

He must only be seen in the night.

His ravens are his messengers.

Harm one and it will be your end.

He will come for you.

* * *

He will sing the song of the dead.

He will lead his ravens through the midnight grove.

Fear him for his might.

Keep out of sight.

Watch from afar if you must.

Dare not lust the idea of capture,

He can never be caught.

* * *

His ravens will warn him.

They will sing their song

And he will be gone in the wind.

Nothing binds him to this world.

* * *

On the day he arrives

Watch for the ravens.

They will tell you where he will be.

And they will mislead those who follow.

Their eyes burn like cinder,

Their beaks shine like metal coils,

When they caw it rouses the dead.

* * *

He will be in places long forgotten.

He will wander to and fro until he sees fit.

Those who he grants pity toward receive gifts.

Those who he grants reprisal will never be heard again.

* * *

The ravens will lurk in corners watching your moves.

They will tell him if you were good and if you were bad.

Pray that he understands,

Or he will surely enact a punishment so grim,

You might become just like him.

* * *

Alone in this world,

Long forgotten,

Forced to wander the begotten land,

As you cry out into the night.

"Oh where has it gone, the light?"

* * *

Sherlock frowned as he neared the end. From the penmanship, Alice was calm and looked to be in a better state than he was when he came to Sherlock. It was legible and neatly written with a fountain pen. Alice was getting better before Wallace and his accomplice tormented him and regress him to a state of fear. Now that Sherlock had the evidence, he just needed the accomplice. Then, he was going to look for Alice. Wherever he is, surely he was somewhere in London. From what Frank told them back in the oddity shop, Alice wasn't going to go back to Galahad.


	8. It's Never Simple

"Suppose I took a page from you. If we are going to find Alice then he'll be likely to listen if he sees something familiar," John showed Sherlock the box. "And if we're going to help Alice, I don't think it'd be a good idea to leave it here."

They then discussed their findings in detail.

"So, Wallace had someone scare Alice to keep him from talking," John summed as Sherlock had told him what he had found in Wallace's office.

John then summed what he had found from the box, "I found his journal, photographs, and his old badge. Um, majority of his journal's pages was in Gaelic but I did find a couple of pages in English. The day the shipment went missing it switched back to Gaelic and his penmanship steadily declined each sentence. He was afraid that someone might read his journal."

"Wallace changed his medications, higher dosage, just so he would be unable to testify if it ever came to that," Sherlock continued. John's look was shared with Sherlock. It was your standard drugs trade, with the only man who bore witnessed to it given the equivalent of being silenced. "We need to find his accomplice."

"Well, who else had to gain from the theft?" John asked him. Sherlock pondered. He thought back to what George said. Who was there around the time the shipment went missing and when Alice was frightened by the plague doctor in his room. Wallace was established. George had no reason. So, how about Russel?

"I didn't find any American bills in Wallace's office. So, what do we know about Russel?" Sherlock looked at John.

John chewed on his lips. "Worked as a janitor for Oxford, divorced two times, owes money, and lives with friends," John told him what Sara and the others said about Russel.

"How does a man who worked as a janitor come to work as a nurse?" Sherlock questioned. John shrugged. "Well, either he had a hidden talent," John trailed. Sherlock finished with, "Or he had help."

"Well, he'd have to be registered," John reminded Sherlock.

It didn't deter Sherlock, though. He looked at John. "If a shipment of medications was stolen, then I don't doubt faked paperwork isn't out of the question," Sherlock said as his light blue eyes gleamed with intrigue.

They were interrupted with the arrival of Lestrade and the others.

"Okay, Sherlock, what'd ya mean "bird mask"?" Lestrade looked at him. Sherlock handed Lestrade the bag with the mask.

"There's blood on it, have her have a look," Sherlock pointed.

Lestrade looked at the mask. He stopped and looked up at them. "Oy, I seen this mask before," Lestrade said. He carefully studied the mask. "There's a shop that sells them on Gulliver."

Sherlock became increasingly intrigued.

"How long would you estimate getting to it from here?" John asked Lestrade.

Lestrade answered, "Well, I know on foot it's at least an hour."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector. Please have a look at Wallace's office. Do check his finances. And, bring a Russel," Sherlock trailed. John helped him. "Bring Russel Stokes in for questioning, we believe he might be a suspect," he said.

Lestrade nodded. "Right, Russel Stokes. I'll have my best shake a few trees. While they're looking for Russel, I'll have the rest look for Alice," Lestrade glanced at his cellphone in his other hand.

Sherlock immediately said, "No, don't send anyone to look for Alice."

"What the hell do you mean, he's off his medications and is the only witness to the murder," Lestrade eyed him. Sherlock shook his head.

"Sending policemen after him isn't going to get him to cooperate no better than the medications. He's afraid," Sherlock pleaded with him.

Lestrade tilted his head. "Then what am I supposed to do, let you two search for him?" he scorned.

Sherlock nodded. "Please, he's already scared. If you want to find him, you have to trust me," Sherlock continue to plead.

Lestrade sighed as he lowered his cellphone. "Fine, I won't send a search party. But you better damn well know what you're doing. For all we know he hopped on a bus and headed back to Galahad!" Lestrade stared at Sherlock as he stared back.

John stood between them while holding the box under his left arm. He looked at Lestrade as he said, "We have reasons to believe Alice won't leave London."

"How can you be sure?" Lestrade asked them.

Sherlock gave him his answer. "Because it's here, he can't leave without it following him," Sherlock's light blue eyes gleamed.

Lestrade looked dumbfounded. While the two had their differences, big and small, and usually Sherlock always seemed to use technical terms to throw him off, Sherlock being cryptic about something was rather new for Lestrade.

"What do you mean, "It's here"?" Lestrade balked.

Sherlock sighed. John quickly said before Sherlock got a word in, "They used his triggers. Added with his medications he'll have reasons to believe it is real."

"So why not let Sinclair Riverside and the LPD handle it?" Lestrade questioned them.

Sherlock omitted the details about Alice meeting him. "Trust me, please," Sherlock gave his final plea. It did the trick.

Lestrade sighed as he stuffed his cellphone back in his pocket and ran a hand through his hair. "Fine, you two deal with him. But you better damn well know what you're doing. One incident and that's it, hear?" Lestrade pointed at them.

They nodded. "Thank you," John mustered. Sherlock remained quiet.

Lestrade then asked, "How are you even going to find him?"

"The same way we always find people," Sherlock walked passed him with John following suit. "Look in the least obvious places."

Lestrade caught a glance at the box under John's arm as he passed by. "Oy, where're you going with that?" Lestrade called out to John. John stopped and turned around.

"It's the only way to find Alice," John summed. Lestrade's brow raised as John hurried down the stairs to meet with Sherlock.

Before Lestrade and the others could say anything more, they were out of Sinclair Riverside. John carried the box in both hands as they stepped through the gate.

"So, how _are_ we going to find him, Sherlock?" John looked at him.

Sherlock chewed on his lips as he pondered that exact question. Alice wouldn't go anywhere near the places where he was known. He certainly won't come back to Sinclair Riverside. He isn't going back to Galahad. Where would a man like Alice go in a city like London?

"How about the homeless, suppose they seen him?" John suggested. If Alice walked amongst the homeless, then Sherlock's network could fetch them precious leads. It isn't exactly hard to mistake someone like Alice.

John heard Sherlock say as he glanced around the street, "It's a start."

"You said Alice had reached out to people in Norfolk, suppose they know anything?" John continued. Sherlock shook his head. John sighed."Usually people want to be found. It's a first in the longest that someone _doesn't_ want to be found," John noted.

Enemies, especially the likes of Morarity, _wanted_ to be found. They always did anything they could just so they could be found. Attention seekers, the layman's term for them. It's a different story for those who don't want to be found. It varied, but to save time. They were those that had plenty of reasons to hide. Alice was no exception.

"I'm going to the shop on Gulliver, you head back with the box," Sherlock looked at John.

John nodded. "Right, I'll let you know if I find anything," John stepped near the curb as a taxi pulled up for him. As John got in, he felt a cold spell come over him. It felt like someone was giving him an icy stare. John's dark eyes moved toward the left to see that raven, hanging on a post, leering at him. John blinked quickly as he pushed himself into the backseat. "221B Baker Street, please," John quickly said to the cabby. As the taxi pulled away from the curb toward the street, John sat back in the seat with the box beside him. His eyes moved toward the window as the taxi drove past businesses. He swore he saw a black speck flying overhead. "I'm going mad, I swear it," John rubbed his eyes and exhaled.


	9. Tale of Two Men

John arrived at 221B Baker Street with the evidence in hand. With the cabby paid, John watched as the taxi pulled away from the curb and joined with a string of vehicles. Before he even walked up the steps, John glanced around. He was certain that it would be there. All he saw were people walking up and down the sidewalks. "I am really losing it," John muttered under his breath.

John held the box with one hand as he knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson, who had returned from running errands earlier, opened it. "Oh, hello, John," she smiled at him. "Evening, Mrs. Hudson," John stepped through the doorway.

Mrs. Hudson had a peculiar look about her. John frowned. "Mrs. Hudson is something wrong?" he asked her.

She responded. "Well, when I came back from me errands, a man was waiting by the door," she said. John blinked.

Mrs. Hudson wouldn't've met Alice, she wasn't here then. Suppose Alice came back and met with Mrs. Hudson instead.

"Was his name Alice Walker, by chance?" he asked her.

Mrs. Hudson pondered. She shook her head. "He never told me. He was asking about Sherlock, though," she replied. "You know I don't normally ask questions, but when we were talking, I swear his voice was going to give."

"Right, um, what he look like?" John gestured with his free hand.

Mrs. Hudson continued to ponder. She responded with, "Peculiar, I'd say. He looked so pale, I tried to offer some tea, but he wouldn't take it. He thanked me nevertheless, apologized for taking some of my time, and disappeared."

"That had to been Alice," John muttered under his breath. He coughed. "Um, did he leave anything with you, perhaps?"

"Actually he did, he left a note for Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson pointed backwards.

John nodded. "I'll need it, thank you Mrs. Hudson," he thanked her.

Mrs. Hudson said as she turned around to fetch the note, "I'm not your messenger, you know."

"I know, I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson," John apologized. He received the note from her. He studied it and it was sealed with wax. From everything that went on thus far, Alice wouldn't have access to wax, but if he did, how or where would he gotten it?

"By the way, where has Sherlock gone?" Mrs. Hudson inquired. John told her.

"Ah, went to a shop, for the case," he mustered. Mrs. Hudson looked at him funny. "Would it be the one on Gulliver?" she tilted her head at him.

John stared her."Y-Yes, the one on Gulliver, have you heard about it?" he gestured.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, but the man mentioned it, though. Said it was interesting and that Sherlock would've liked it," she said.

John cleared his throat.

It was not Alice who had come to 221B Baker Street once again. It was someone else. Who it was, Mrs. Hudson rightly didn't know. But the fact he left a sealed note for Sherlock, it was something that concerned John.

With the note resting on top of the box, John headed up the steps to the flat. With the spare key he kept on his keyring, John entered. He rested the box and note on a table as he tapped his shoes against the mat. "Dreary day," he huffed. He ruffled his hair and combed it with his fingers. Sherlock never gave him a chance to retrieve his umbrella. Once Sherlock was set on something, he wasn't going to dawdle nor let John, even if it was for something simple as an umbrella. How Sherlock never had the case of the sniffles is anyone's guess. Suppose Sherlock's immune system mirrors him personally. Even the viruses are unable to handle his immune system. They were so afraid of it that they flock to the nearest one, John's. How else is that Sherlock could up and about and John is stuck in bed bobbling the thermometer in his mouth while Mary made him soup?

"Right, what does the note have to say?" John muttered under his breath as he took it up into his hands after rubbing them against his pant legs. He studied the ruby red wax seal and the seal was your standard store-bought stamp that only costed around four to maybe five euros. But the wax looked different from the store bought specialty wax. From closer inspection, it was scented. It was rose scented and John recognized it. It was a candle that Mary occasionally bought from the supermarket. She liked the scent but John never cared for it. "So, someone used store bought candle and stamp. Wonderful."

John rested the note on top of the box and fetched one of Sherlock's many scalpels and a pair of latex gloves. With precision, John scrapped off the seal and rested it in an empty Petri dish. With the seal taken off, John carefully opened the note. Inside, well, John had no idea what to say about it.

* * *

My, my, reading someone else's message, Mr. Watson?

I dare say you've broken the law. No matter, the message was intended for you, anyhow. I know what you're seeing. You cannot lie to a note, Mr. Watson. It'd be a waste of oxygen if you tried, I wouldn't do it if I were you. You've seen it flying about, haven't you?

Perched above signs and the like?

Watching you and no one else?

Sherlock doesn't or won't believe you?

I pray that he doesn't start to see you less than he already has. Come now, even _you_ know he would. Men like him don't change, neither do we, Mr. Watson. People only change when it suits them.

* * *

So, I'll make it quick.

Have you noticed you're being watched?

Shuddering in the absent cold breeze on a muggy day like this?

Feeling like you're being watched from afar?

I'll spare you the insanity Mr. Watson; it's not the raven that's staring at you. Merely a ploy to get you to notice and it worked marvelously! Shame Mr. Holmes never took to it. But we both know he's the type to cause trouble.

Now that I got your attention, suppose I'll get to the point. I'm writing this note as means to forewarn.

* * *

Ever wonder what's hidden in the dark?

Give a nice flash and see!

It might surprise you.

It might frighten you.

* * *

But since you're working with Mr. Holmes, I doubt it'd be a problem.

Be on your guard, Mr. Watson.

It'd be terrible if anything were to happen to you and Mr. Holmes.

What would Mary say to it, I wonder?

Suppose we'll see, won't we?

Good hunting, Mr. Watson.

—Yours Truly.

P.S.: Congratulations on the babe. What will you teach it, I wonder?

* * *

It was written on a type writer. The paper the note was written on looked to be like any paper bought from the nearest office store. So, as it stood, John had no means to derive evidence from it. Assuming there was fingerprints on the note and the wax seal, John had nothing. But the note alone made the hairs on his neck stood up. Not only was the writer aware that John would read the note, they wanted him to read it. The fact that it referenced Mary and their child, John was frightened. Whoever wrote it knew exactly who he and Sherlock were. The fact it they toyed with John meant they took a separate page from Morarity. John wouldn't lie, he was afraid now. He fetched the portable black light and shined it over the note. An up close portrait of a plague doctor lit up.

John felt his stomach tie into knots. His mind wasn't capable of much else until he texted Mary to check up on her. She had just woken up from her nap. They exchanged texts and John's stomach untied itself. Mary was fine. And with that John was able to continue his search for evidence. He pulled out the evidences that they had accumulated so far and carefully went over them. The black light didn't show any hidden messages from Alice's journal. The photographs didn't have anything hidden either. It was very tedious, to say the least. Nevertheless, John pushed forward. He went on the laptop and did the only thing one could in his regard. He looked up translations for Alice's journal. Granted, John took the translations with a grain of salt. He wrote out the translations on a notepad near the laptop.

He planned to make rough translations and hopefully, find someone to accurately translate. So far, with what John had gathered, the beginning half of the journal discussed Alice coming to terms of what he had done and what he had lost. He had lost everything in the end. After Frank's disappearance and the death of his family, Alice had quit the force. He was diagnosed with depression and was prescribe antidepressants. But, he complained that it caused nightmares and made him lose his appetite.

Eventually, he was switched to a new medication. Around that time, he started to see the raven more and more. It tormented him so much he almost committed suicide because he was afraid that Frank would come and claim him. That was the reason he was placed into mental health facilities. The doctors declared the raven he was seeing was a side effect of his new medication and with therapy and other programs; Alice was no longer deemed a risk and allowed to transfer to another facility, the one he was transferred out shortly thereafter over his possessions. When he arrived to Sinclair Riverside, he felt like his life was on track. He no longer saw the raven anymore and seemed to calm down for a while.

John skipped toward where the shipment disappeared.

While Alice was bedridden with a stomachache from supper last night, he glanced out the window. He had nothing to do since he couldn't move two inches without vomiting. As he looked out the window, he noticed one of the… (John couldn't get the translator to work properly) taking up the shipments. They saw him in the window and Alice hid under his covers.

He never told anyone because of (the words were smudged and John couldn't discern what they were) and he paid dearly when he was switched to another prescription with a higher dosage and it made him weak and feeble. And he started seeing the raven again. Watching him from the elm tree, it was waiting, waiting for him.

John summed from the journal entries that the medication Alice was forced to take was driving him to the brink of insanity. With the death of his family, the death of Frank, and everything else, it was a miracle the man was still alive. Though, John noted that it might be so much a miracle, but luck.

Sitting back in the chair, John glanced at the box he placed beside the laptop for convenience. He pulled out the photographs and looked at them more attentively. Alice was much younger in them, mid to late thirties. He smiled a lot in majority of the photographs. One was him during his years as a policeman. One was a wedding picture with him and his late wife. On the back: ALICE AND ALICIA WALKER. One was a family photograph. Alice proudly smiling with his son on his left and Alicia on his right, he seemed so tranquil, so content. The next photograph had the gravestone with his son's name on it. On the left of it was Alice and on the right was Alicia. In the back was a tree and in the top branches was a bird. Because the photograph was in black and white, John couldn't tell what it was.

As John carefully set the photographs back in their rightful places in the box, he noticed a photograph he didn't look at it. It was the one with Alice and Frank. From what John noticed, they were much younger in the black and white picture. Frank was taller than Alice, thinner, his eyes were silver if not a lighter color and if John could guess, he had dark hair. He had a bird nose, similar to Sherlock's.

John's mind lit up with a thought. What if Frank was never dead?

What if he was alive and had been. Now, he suddenly reappeared, reasons John couldn't name on the top of his head. But, John dismissed the thought entirely. The evidence wasn't there. And, even if Frank was alive, Sherlock would've found out. Then, who was Mrs. Hudson speaking with?


	10. Sherlock Got a Spook

The Herring Shoppe was a small shop. A hole in a wall, many might not know it existed if not for the colorful masks that decorated the storefront. Originally it was a small coffee shop that was sold sometime in 1991 and remodeled to what it was now. Its age showed compared to a modern styled café next door.

Sherlock stepped through the glass door and seemingly was transported to another point in time. The wood walls were aged, the floors were scuffled from abuse, the floors themselves creaked as Sherlock walked over them, and the light fixtures were dated. There were glass shelves with mirrors in the back on both sides of the walls, filled with expensive masks. Some were gas masks from WWII while others were made of animal bones and so forth, masks that many might not ever concern themselves with. Sherlock stepped toward the red counter and glanced down to see a bell. He tapped it once and waited. He waited for ten minutes before he tapped it a couple of times.

A man appeared at the doorway to the back."Yes, who is it?" he yawned.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I was told I could find bird masks here," Sherlock said to him.

The man nodded as he closed the door behind him and stepped toward the counter. "Depends, do you want festival or do you want Renaissance?" he asked.

Sherlock replied, "The white porcelain one, with a pointy beak, and raised brows."

"Ah, that one, I'm terribly sorry but we've sold our last one. It'd be a bit before we get another shipment in. Ah, if you want I can hold one for you," the man offered.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm more interested in the clientele. Has anyone purchased one recently?" he asked.

The man pondered. He shrugged. "The mask's popular; we've been selling them left and right. You'll have to throw me an extra bone for me to know," he pointed at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "May I see your receipts?" he asked him. The man pondered again.

'Why should I?" the man balked.

Sherlock told him. "I am Sherlock Holmes and I am investigating a death. The perpetrator bought one of your bird masks. Now, have I cleared the air?" he sternly looked.

The man recoiled. "Alright, alright, you made your point. But you have to understand, my assistant files the receipts after each night. If you expect to find what you're looking for, you gotta take it up with her," the man gestured.

Sherlock tilted his head, "And who is your assistant?"

"Ah, her name's Red," the man gestured. "She's in the back with the stock."

"May I speak with her?" Sherlock asked him. The man nodded. He turned around and walked toward the door. He opened it and shouted, "Oy, Red! Get out 'ere!"

He coughed as he turned back to Sherlock. "She usually listens to her tunes so I have to yell. You understand, surely?"

"Right," Sherlock nodded. He watched as a young woman appeared in the doorway. She had red hair that was tied back in a loose ponytail with loose hair covering her white earbuds. She pulled out an earbud.

"What, what, what ya want, now Bert?" Red looked at him. He pointed at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes here needs to see the receipts, you think you can help him?" he asked.

Red glimpsed at Sherlock."What's he doing here looking at receipts?" Red inquired.

Sherlock answered her. "I'm investigating a murder," he said.

"A murder, how typical," Red shook her head. She sighed. "Alright, I shall help him find his receipts. Come along, Mr. Holmes, it shouldn't take you long to find what you're looking for," she turned around as she stuck her earbud back in. Bert raised the counter and Sherlock followed Red into the back. There were rows of shelves with various masks, some latex, some plastic, and some were cloth or leather. Costumes were wrapped in protective plastic. There were Victorian, Renascence, and Civil War garbs, anything that anyone would want if they desired to dress as such.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he asked Red. "Has anyone bought a plague doctor costume?" he inquired.

Red turned her head toward him. "Huh? Oh, they're kinda popular. The usual ones we sell are the cloth ones, much cheaper than the other ones we have," she answered.

Sherlock nodded. "And what other variations of it do you have?" Sherlock continued. Red answered with, "Leather, faux and real, and latex. But, trust me; you don't want to know the kind of folk who wants the latex ones."

Looking at that way, Sherlock truthfully didn't want to. He'll only look into it if he has to. The person who killed Wallace would probably not want to waste money on a costume he'll have to throw out immediately after. So Sherlock theorized he bought the cheapest variation available, the cloth version. The mask, though found in this particular shop, seemed popular enough that anyone wouldn't second guess someone wearing it. Though it was clever to some, it was still usual by the likes of Sherlock. Sherlock was led toward the back of the room to see filing cabinets lined up side by side with four drawers each. "Um, just to make it easier, how far back are you looking?" Red asked.

Sherlock replied, "Receipts from the last three weeks, please."

"Alright," Red went to the last filing cabinet on the far right and knelt down to the bottom drawer. With her key, she opened it and glanced back at Sherlock. "Just remember to put everything back as you found it," she told him.

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you," he thanked her as he stepped near the drawer.

"Don't mind me, I gotta check stock and write out a few things," Red disappeared behind a set of shelves. "Don't break anything! I'm aware that a man like you has little in terms of payment!"

With that, Sherlock began to look through the folders labeled by months. He found the folder for October and opened it carefully. There were attached liners where it separated by dates. Sherlock combed each one until he got to the dates he was interested in. The one thing Sherlock learned over the years was that no matter how clever a criminal was or so he thought, he'll always leave a breadcrumb behind. And this was one of them. Signed and dotted, paid with a credit card, Wallace bought a porcelain mask and the plague doctor costume. It was in large. Wallace bought it to fit the suspect. Suppose if you wanted to scare someone into silence, you have to be wearing the correct sized costume to do so.

* * *

The Herring Shoppe

23.10.15 20:00 PM

1x Por. Bird Mask 6.60

1x Large Plague Dr. Costume 30.00

= 36.60

Signature: Wallace Braham

* * *

With the evidence in hand, Sherlock pushed the drawer back into the cabinet and stood up. He stood up and looked around. He called out to Red. "Miss, I am finished. I have what I am looking for!" he said. She didn't hear him. Sherlock then remembered that she was listening to her tunes and might've not heard him. So, he shuffled around the aisles of shelves, looking for Red. He was careful not to get too close to the shelves as he looked for her. As he neared the beginning half shelves, he was stopped when his coat brushed against the plastic toy soldiers and caused one of them to fall down. Sherlock knelt down and picked it up, the toy soldier was based on the events of D-Day with soldiers storming Normandy Beach. Sherlock stuck the toy soldier back in its proper case and stood up.

Sherlock was never the type to become frightened at the drop of the hat. He was used to being toyed with and having his fears played and exploited by his enemies. But even the Great Detective wasn't safe from a jolly good prank on the behalf of Red.

"Boo!" Red suddenly said, leaning in with the beak of the bird mask she wore touching Sherlock's nose. Sherlock's reaction was swift. He jumped and stepped back. It took a minute for him to regain his composure and to see Red chuckling.

"Ah, sorry, I couldn't help myself. I've been pranking Bert too long that he's plum well used to my tricks. But you on the other hand, well, I couldn't pass up the opportunity," she mustered.

"Ha-ha, amusing," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He watched as Red pulled off the bird mask, pulling back strands of her hair as she still chuckled.

"Ah, come on, it's not the worst that happened to you, right?" she gestured.

That was true.

"I found what I was looking for," Sherlock showed her. She nodded. "Alright, anything else?" she asked.

Sherlock kept it simple, "Speak of this to no one."

"Fine, fine, it's only fair," Red nodded.


	11. Message in A Message

After his attempt at translating Alice's journal, John decided to work on the bills. With the portable black light in hand, John highlighted the bills. A magnifying glass in one hand and the black light in another, John proceeded to attempt to read what was written. To his displeasure, it was all in Gaelic. "Bloody hell," John muttered under his breath. When this case, whenever it ends, John planned to learn Gaelic as to avoid incidents like this. Though, since the use of the language had waned over the years, John was left with another conundrum on top of the others.

"Oy, the things I do for a case," John muttered. Making a makeshift stand, John propped up the black light, freeing up John's hand to write out the paragraphs written on the bills on the nearby notepad. It took a while but with a steady hand, John managed to write all that Alice wrote. He even managed to copy the drawings, not verbatim, but enough for them to work with. With the copies, John carefully separated the bills based on their acquisition and stuck them in an evidence envelope that Sherlock kept stacks of for such occasion. With the copies, John stuck them in a separate envelope for now. Alice's journal was returned to its rightful place in the box with the others.

John heard knocking on the door. It wasn't Sherlock or anyone else who would come to the flat, so with deduction, it was Mrs. Hudson. He stood up from his chair and walked over to the door. Upon opening it, there indeed was Mrs. Hudson. "Ah, hello, Mrs. Hudson, did you need anything?" John asked her.

"I was just checking up on you. I hadn't heard from Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson told him.

John nodded. "Ah, knowing him, he's probably chasing leads," he gestured. Mrs. Hudson entered the flat and scorned it. "I tell him to keep it clean," she hissed.

"I'm sure he means to clean it," John motioned with his hands. "You know Sherlock."

"Doesn't mean he can't mop the floors," Mrs. Hudson huffed.

Sherlock actually taking time out of his day to actually mop up the flat that looked to have years-worth of footprints?

And here John thought reading a fan story forwarded to his email address about him and Sherlock being cuffed to a bed in space was the most ridiculous thing ever contrived.

"How is your case going, if you don't mind me asking?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

John gave a heavy sigh in response. "I thought the Baskerville Hound made my head spin, but this is close to surpassing that," he groaned.

"Don't push too hard," Mrs. Hudson smiled. Even though she gave him and Sherlock grief for things they did, she always had a way of raising their spirits when they were in doubt.

"I try not to," John rubbed his eyes. He stopped. He had an idea. Suppose that Mrs. Hudson did see either Alice or Frank, she couldn't describe them, but what if she saw a picture of them?

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, suppose you can't remember the man who dropped off the note, could you identify him in a photograph?" John gestured.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I could, yes," she responded.

John went to the box again and carefully dug it out. He turned around with it in his hands and walked back to Mrs. Hudson.

He showed her the photograph of Alice and Frank. He wanted to know for sure who she might've seen. And to put to rest the dozens of theories that John had in his head.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the photograph attentively. John could see her eyes moving up and down and back and forth on it. She glanced up at him and shook her head. "No, neither of them dropped off the note," she declared.

John then mentioned, "Um, the photograph is quite old. Just think of them if they were older, say thirty years or so."

"Older," Mrs. Hudson murmured as she studied the photograph one more time. She struggled as she looked at the photograph. Her mind was piecing together what John had told her. From what John saw, Mrs. Hudson tried her best to visualize the men if they were older. She frowned as she gave the photograph back to John.

"I'm sorry dear, they don't look like the man that came here," Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"That's okay, Mrs. Hudson. By chance, might he have an accent?" John continued. Mrs. Hudson thought about it.

"Well, it was quite country, if I could be honest with you. Not very country that I'd noticed, but it was there," she said to him.

John nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Um, are you alright?" he asked her. Mrs. Hudson huffed at him.

"I'm not a wallflower. I handled myself," Mrs. Hudson scorned him. John apologized.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I was just worried. I dare say this case of ours has been bothering me," John frowned. Mrs. Hudson noticed his discomfort.

She patted on him on the shoulder. "Ah, I'll make you some tea. It'll make you right as rain," she offered. He accepted.

John sat on the couch as Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen. As she opened cabinets and taking out teacups, plates, and the kettle, John looked at the photograph, his mind fettered with that question.

Who was it that Mrs. Hudson spoke with?

If not Alice, if not Frank, then who else would know about the case?

John thought about the suspect, Russel, and how he might fit into it. If indeed he was the killer, then why would he leave the note with Mrs. Hudson?

Suppose, there was a third party involved. Who it was and what they were gaining from this, John didn't know. But it wouldn't be the first time it happened. It became a running joke, actually. How long a case goes before it turns out to be a network of events and characters all tied together by one sole suspect. Morarity was rather fond of using that.

Then, who could've it been?

George couldn't've done it. His bad knee limited him to what he could go. He certainly couldn't go anywhere without the use of his cane. Even with painkillers, George had to still rely on his cane. And there was no way he could get up to Lenny's windowsill without someone noticing.

John thought about that windowsill. Whoever killed Wallace came through that windowsill. Out of desperation, they hid the mask. They hid the costume elsewhere. They might've planned to dump them elsewhere but was stopped when George found the bird mask and gave it to Lenny.

So, what then?

"Here's your tea, dear," Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen doorway with the tray. She sat it down on the table. John smiled at her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John reached for his teacup. He heard Mrs. Hudson.

"Don't expect me to always make you tea," Mrs. Hudson reminded him. Of course, she always reminded him and Sherlock about things she wouldn't do for them but always done them anyway.

Sipping on his tea, John looked at the photograph that rested on his knee. His mind was trying desperately to cling to a solid theory.

What was John missing?

What was he looking for?

"Must be a difficult case," Mrs. Hudson noted. John nodded.

"I don't get it, what are we missing?" John wondered.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him. "I hate to pry, but what was in the note?" she inquired.

John frowned. He answered. "Ah, I don't really know. It sounds like a threat but at the same time, it sounds almost like a warning," he sighed.

"You haven't found clues in it?" Mrs. Hudson blinked.

John shrugged, "I honestly didn't see anything."

He sat down the tea cup on the plate and picked up the photograph. Standing up he returned the photograph back into the box and grabbed for the note. "Didn't seem like there could be anything hidden in the note."

He sat down with the note and looked at it. He told Mrs. Hudson, "It was sealed with a rose scented candle wax and a generic stamp."

Mrs. Hudson leaned in to look at the note. She tilted her head. "My Lord, he knows about Mary," she exhaled when she got to the part of the note.

John frowned when he realized.

"Mrs. Hudson, he knew I'd be here. He knew that Sherlock was going to that shop," he looked at her. "He's watching us."

"Oh my," Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch with a hand under her chin. "I _hate_ the crazy ones!"

"The raven," John muttered under his breath. He looked to Mrs. Hudson with his eyes widening.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you happen to notice anything strange as you were doing your errands?" he asked her.

She pondered and shook her head. "No, not as strange as this," she replied.

John gestured, "Mrs. Hudson, did you ever feel like you were being watched?"

"Watched," Mrs. Hudson pondered. She tugged on her pearl necklace for a bit before she answered. "No, not at all," she replied.

John glimpsed at the note and tilted his head. Something about it caught his interest. Why he never saw it before, poor lighting or the presumption that a clue would be visible, it was a tossup.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you see these lines," John showed her the note.

She looked at it and answered, "I do."

John stared at the note. Suppose he folded the note and something would reveal itself. But, if he did and he was wrong, he might have ruined evidence. While Sherlock was used to doing illegal things, John rather not step on the toes of parliament.

"Right, how would I fold it?" John held his breath. He held the note at the ends with both his fingers, turning it. "Now I know what Sherlock meant about laundry."

Sherlock folding clothes went well as you'd imagine.

John had to exhale after a bit because he just couldn't fold the note.

Mrs. Hudson looked at it. "Might I have a glance?" she asked John.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, this is evidence," John reminded her.

She responded with, "And Sherlock swam the canal with a stolen backpack!"

True, very true, Sherlock did in fact steal a backpack and swam with it on his back in the canal. In his defense, it was evidence and he couldn't wait for Lestrade.

"Right," John cleared his throat as he gave Mrs. Hudson the note.

She took it into her dainty hands and studied it. She seemed to understand it and began to fold it. Gently she folded corners of the note and folded the note itself. It was like watching the American's Bob Ross painting a landscape, if John could be honest.

Somehow, through sheer luck, Mrs. Hudson handed John a paper raven. "Oh, it's a raven!" he heard Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, how did you know what to do?" John asked her.

She replied, "Well, I learn origami lessons from the telly."

John couldn't muster anything to say from that. God bless, Mrs. Hudson.

"Right, so it's a paper raven," John looked at it. "Then, what does it mean?"

"Mystery, I heard that's one of the symbolisms," Mrs. Hudson suggested.

John chewed on his lip as he studied the raven at all angles. He stopped when he noticed that where there would be curves for the wings, was something hidden. He got up and grabbed the black light. Sitting down with the light over the paper raven, there was a message.

* * *

Tick tock, goes the clock!

Tick tock, goes the grandfather clock!

A man so jovial and carefree,

I dread for thee.

Thy time comes when the clocks strike midnight.

* * *

"What does it mean?" Mrs. Hudson looked at John.

John grabbed for his cellphone and began to text Sherlock. "Something is going to happen," he mustered.


	12. Everything Falls Into Place (Eventually)

Sherlock stepped out of the shop. He had the evidence that Wallace had bought the mask and costume. Now, he just had to prove that Russel was the one who used it against Alice. Sherlock's mind was fettered with thoughts about how Russel went about it, using the costume without being caught. He thought about the blooded prints on Lenny's windowsill, they were coming into his room. Lenny said that he was at dinner around the time of the murder. Russel would know the schedule by heart. He'd know the patients would be downstairs in the dining room eating and none of them would be in their rooms. Lenny's room was the farthest and Sherlock suspected it was picked because of it. Russel would come into Lenny's room, blooded from the murder, and with the adrenaline pumping; he would've been ripping off his costume, attempting to rid of evidence linking him.

Of course, there was a chance that he took off his costume beforehand and the blooded handprints were because of the contact he had with the costume. But then, that wouldn't explain the mask being found in the kitchen.

What happened to the costume, Sherlock thought about Russel being afraid it being found. Even though it was minimum security, the staff would have to keep an eye on outgoing rubbish. So if he couldn't dispose it, he might've hid it until he could. Where, Sherlock pondered that on top of everything else.

Then, there were the underlying questions about how Russel snuck in and out without anyone else noticing. How would he been able to get rid of the costume, wash up, all without the aforementioned?

Lenny's and the other patients' rooms were on the second floor. The kitchen was past the dining room. Russel would have to walk past the exposed doorway, where the patients and the nurses would see him plain as day.

The theory that stemmed from that had Russel toss the costume before he climbed through the window. He still had the mask because he was panicking. He was exposed now; anyone who could see him would easily be able to identify him immediately. The mask could've been tossed, too, but Russel kept it. Either his ineptness got the better of him or he planned to set up one of the patients. Patients using each other's triggers would've resulted in a disciplinary action, usually. But if a patient were found with evidence that inaccurately tied them to Wallace's murder, well, then Russel would avert suspicion. He was a nurse that would have to know his patients' triggers and by using them for his own nefarious purpose, he'd almost commit the perfect crime.

Sherlock chewed on his lip. He won't get those answers until Lestrade brings in Russel for questioning. Then, while questioning Russel, Sherlock will prod him for details about Alice. Should Russel inference that he planned to murder Alice to keep him from testifying, well, he wouldn't be the first man Sherlock threw out a window. Well, out the window numerous times Sherlock plum lost track. Not that it bothered him the slightest.

He glanced up to the skies above, dark and grim, with no light from the sunset penetrating through, the wind picked up as the rain subsided for now. A storm was coming in, the kind that thunder and lighting, with rippling winds that knock over rubbish bins and blow rubbish into the surrounding streets.

His mind reasoned that everything would be said and done once he proves that Russel murdered Wallace. When he and John find and comfort Alice, Alice would be able to calm down and reason. With no plague doctor or raven to torment him, he would be able to regress from a scared elderly man to a normal elderly man who still griefs for his family. Even though Sherlock wished that were different, sometimes, things don't change after a drastic event such as this occurs, though sometimes Sherlock wishes differently; it was not how life works. Life was subjective, sometimes a grieving man like Alice would be able to find comfort and move on from his losses, sometimes though, it was polar opposite and often or not if not for the facility keeping care of him, Alice would've surely committed suicide by this point. Hopefully, the outcome would be as good enough as any.

Alice would be able to sleep knowing his end isn't near as he thought. He'd be able to live out his days without being driven by fear.

When this case was over, whenever that will be, suppose Sherlock will wait for another case to turn up as he done in the past since he started this profession. Sherlock was used to cases beginning and ending, it was how it worked in his profession. Sometimes slow to start and sometimes slow to end, sometimes opposite of that, it didn't matter to him, though. Any case was better than none, though he wished there were always interesting ones to do. It was tedious dealing with spouses at each other's throats over affairs and whatever else walked through that door all the time, you solve one man cheating on his wife who was cheating on him with their chauffeur, you solved them all.

Sherlock's mind was pulled away with the abrupt text message from John. He didn't quite solve the case on his end either, but he did find a clue that looked to be more a threat than a simple sonnet. Sherlock quickly typed out a reply and headed toward the curb and held up his hand, calling out to a taxi.

One pulled up and Sherlock almost jumped in as he pushed himself into the backseat. "221B Baker Street," Sherlock said to the cabby as he closed the car door.

Upon arrival to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock gave the cabby the payment and sprinted out of the taxi and toward the door. Mrs. Hudson was there as she opened it for him.

"Oh, good, you're here," she said as Sherlock stepped through the doorway. He turned to her.

"John's upstairs waiting for you," Mrs. Hudson said to him as she closed the door. Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he managed to say as he sprinted up the stairs.

"John, I'm here, show me the clue," Sherlock huffed as he opened the door to his flat. John stood up and showed him.

Sherlock's eyes moved around as they studied the paper raven. He had read the sonnet that John had copied to a notepad. He glanced at John as he stood there.

"Sherlock, what does it mean?" John looked back. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

Their mortal enemies adored hiding messages within the most innocuous things. Some of which were blatant enough that Sherlock looked them over by mistake. And it almost cost him dearly for that. Some were subtle and required context clues and everything else that comes with it.

Sherlock murmured the sonnet under his breath and he chewed on his lip. John told him, "I think it was Russel. Who else would know?"

"Why would Russel come to us, what would his motives be?" Sherlock tilted his head. John shrugged.

"Well, Lestrade and the LPD are looking for him. He knows it's only a matter of time before he's caught. Perhaps he came to you. Though, I don't know what he thought he'd gained from leaving Mrs. Hudson with an insidious note," John suggested.

Sherlock glanced at the paper raven once again. With the sonnet on his mind, he wondered. What was the purpose of the sonnet and the note itself?

"What if Russel was being blackmailed?" Sherlock's light blue eyes moved to meet John's dark eyes. "Suppose that'd make sense, wouldn't it?"

"If Russel was being blackmailed for the murder, who's blackmailing him, Sherlock, we know it's not Alice so who else stands to gain from this?" John wondered.

Sherlock tried to think about that. With so many pieces missing, he came up dry. At most, someone else witnessed the murder and decided that to instill good old fashion blackmail upon Russel for the crime. Then, how would they be able to blackmail him?

Even if they found the costume, they couldn't prove Russel wore it. Even with the receipt of its purchase, Sherlock can't put Russel in the costume unless he proves it. This case was very much complicated. But then again, Sherlock didn't like overly simple cases either.

So, what is Sherlock to do?

Lestrade hadn't found Russel yet.

Sherlock hadn't found the costume yet.

The evidence, though abundant in information, couldn't be pieced together yet.

Alice was still in the wind.

"John, I'm going to have to go out," Sherlock looked at him. Sherlock planned to go and speak to the homeless. If Sherlock was lucky, he'll learn where Alice went and where he might be hiding. If luckier, Sherlock could find the costume while he was at it.

"Right, um, what am I supposed to do?" John looked back.

Sherlock mulled it over. He gave a heavy sigh. "Go home," he waved his hand.

John stared at him, looking at him to see if he were serious or being his "charming" self. Sherlock was genuine.

"But, Sherlock, what about the note—er paper raven—aren't I at risk?" John sheepishly asked. In his text he didn't tell Sherlock about what the note really said. He censored the parts where it talked about the raven and how Sherlock didn't or wouldn't believe John about its existence. Though Sherlock will find out sooner or later, John really didn't want to deal with that right this moment.

"No, John, they're toying with you," Sherlock shook his head. "They only sought to rattle you."

"But, am I though?" John gestured. Given his track history of being kidnapped, almost burned alive in a tinder pile, and everything else that happened, John was always weary about things like this. In his defense, he has a lot to lose now than he did when he first started working with Sherlock.

"I took the liberty of asking Lestrade to send a policeman to watch the house," Sherlock comforted him. John smiled.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he mustered.

He grabbed for his things and headed to the door. He stopped for a minute. "Um, good night, Sherlock," he said.

"Good night, John," Sherlock nodded.


	13. Frevered Thoughts

The night settled on London. The breeze slowly picked up as the clouds blocked out the moon. It had not rain again since noon, but the humidity could still be felt. The forecast declared that there will be thunderstorms around midnight. It was expected that there will be heavy downpour, blinding lighting, and loud claps of thunder. Tomorrow, thick fog will roll into the area with another chance of rain.

Sherlock's coat ruffled in the breeze as he walked down the sidewalk. Pub goers passed by him, rambling on fevered thoughts that could not be contained. Couples on romantic walks passed by, talking sweet nothings to one another. People entering exclusive clubs, with a long line as Sherlock passed it. Though the weather had been dreadful, it did nothing to deter the nightlife that London always brought out. Even in a downpour, one could even see a group of mates running their mouths while groggily walking the mudded sidewalk.

Heading toward the front of a busy pub, Sherlock met with one of his eyes and ears. There sitting on the ground with a cup in her hand was an elderly woman named Pat. "Ah, 'ello Mr. Holmes," she greeted him.

"Hello, Pat, I come to ask of you," Sherlock spoke to her. She tilted her head at him.

"Well, what else you pay us for?" she chuckled. "Tell me, what's got your curls in knots now?"

"I'm looking for a man. He has been off his medications for a day and might've gotten withdraw syndrome," Sherlock looked down at Pat.

Pat snorted. She pointed at Sherlock with her cup. "There are a lot of men off their medications. What one are you looking?"

"He's around 67 years old. He's got curly hair—like mine but curlier—and it's black with grays in places. He's got fine lines, thick ones. And he might be talking about a raven," Sherlock gestured.

Pat looked at him. "Sounds like you're looking for Edgar Allan Poe," she snorted.

"Please, he's not well and I have reasons to believe his life is in danger," Sherlock pleaded.

Pat sighed. "I heard a man talking about a raven, yes. He was a little older, his hair was matted, and he had thick lines that made me think about my dear late Lou," Pat gestured with her free hand.

It had to been Alice. Nay, it _was_ Alice!

Sherlock was sure he had been that way and he had missed him.

"What was he saying about it?" Sherlock inquired.

Pat mumbled for a moment before she answered him. "Said something about one following him, messenger of death, that sort of thing, I thought he was mad the way he said it was an omen," she shook her head.

Sherlock had to remember. Russel was still about as far as he knew. For all intense and purposes it could've been someone who had read Frank Dash and other bloggers' colorful descriptions of the London Crow. Though his mind was unable to sway, it bellowed that it was Alice. Also, someone else was involved, after all.

"Could you describe him, the man?" Sherlock asked.

Pat pondered. She replied. "A real countryman, he was. Wasn't familiar with London, I'd say," she shrugged.

"Where was he heading?" Sherlock asked.

Pat chewed on her thin lips. "Ah, I'm afraid I can't really tell you. He disappeared through an alleyway," she frowned.

"That's okay. Was there anyone else who might know who I'm looking for?" Sherlock scratched at his head.

"You could always ask Floyd, he's been stalking about those areas," Pat suggested.

"Right, thank you," Sherlock gave her the usual amount carefully folded.

Pat smiled. "Aye, sorry I couldn't be much hope," she apologized.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, thank you, anything is better than nothing," he told her.

He headed off toward where Pat said he could find Floyd. His mind continued to suggest it was Alice. Alice was living on the streets. He couldn't go to a shelter or a church, for fear someone would recognize him. All Sherlock had to do was find him. With little luck and effort, Sherlock could reason with Alice. Alice would be able to see that it was just his imagination and that he could come back without fear. That was the plan. But Sherlock's attentiveness refused that notion, not that it dismissed it entirely, but because there was still evidence to shuffle through.

If someone was blackmailing Russel, who would it be and why so sudden would they blackmail him?

His mind wandered back to an earlier subject. Russel could not become a nurse so soon. He would've had to put in required hours, worked in various places, have a degree, and as mentioned before, he'd have to register as a nurse. That would takes years or more and if he was illegally working as a nurse, then why hadn't someone found out?

Because Wallace used his ties to get Russel his job and fabricated his credentials, so Russel had plenty of reasons to worry about Wallace turning against him. Considering the stolen shipment, there was probably an argument between them about it. Wallace was profiting off the drugs and Russel felt he wasn't getting his share, the two fought. But Russel didn't kill Wallace then, no, Wallace would've reminded him of his fraud. So, Russel lets Wallace go, thinking he won the argument and took up the plague doctor costume. Russel wasn't using the costume to scare Alice a second time, he was using the costume mask his identity and so he could turn Wallace's plan against him. When Alice mistook Russel for his hallucinations and ran off that night, Russel probably didn't give much the thought as he should.

Alice had hallucinated before; Russel presumed that the facility would keep him under observation. Meanwhile, he planned to get rid of the incriminating evidence. But, things happened and Lenny wound up with the mask and there were blooded handprints on his windowsill.

So, why would Russel go after Alice?

What reasons there are and why were it important?

Alice couldn't have seen his face. He probably didn't hear his voice…

Unless Alice had taken incriminating evidence that Russel never thought about until he realized too late, then Russel would have a problem.

The American dollars, Wallace and Russel were paid in American dollars for the stolen shipment. Alice must've grabbed a handful from somewhere in the park and fled. Russel was afraid that it could be traced back to him.

Then, as Sherlock's mind pointed out. They never found the murder weapon. Perhaps Russel took it with him, then where it and what was it?

Or as Sherlock's mind also pointed out, Alice might've used the weapon on Russel, hence why Russel was absent. Alice injures Russel in his paranoid state and fled, Russel had to hurry back to the facility, and Alice kept the weapon. That would explain the blooded handprints on Lenny's windowsill, that wasn't Wallace's blood; it was Russel's own blood. It'd also explain why there was no weapon at the scene.

Sherlock walked through an alleyway. Rubbish littered the ground with the rubbish bins wide open; it was quiet aside from the breeze pushing past Sherlock's ears. Faintly, Sherlock could swear he heard thunder in the distance.

He walked until he came to the end and peered around. He heard humming as he came around a corner. There sitting was Floyd. Floyd noticed.

"Oy, you a copper?" he winced.

"It's me Sherlock," Sherlock waved.

Floyd settled in his spot. "Ah, sorry Sherlock, you can't be too careful these days," he sighed.

"I come to ask of you," Sherlock said.

Floyd gestured. "Right, so what is it that you're looking for?" he blinked.

"I'm looking for an older gentlemen, he has curly hair as I do, grayed in areas. He has fine lines along his face. He might've been talking about a raven," Sherlock described Alice.

Floyd moved around in his spot as he shifted his weight. He replied with, "I think I heard a man talking about a raven. Yeah, said it was following him and it'd be the end of him if it caught him."

"Did he come this way?" Sherlock asked him.

Floyd mumbled under his breath. He slowly nodded. "Yeah, he might've. He might've even gone toward London Park. I heard they're serving our like food. If he's as rabid as he's hungry, you'll find him there," Floyd told Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. He stopped. "Why aren't you there yourself?" he asked Floyd.

Floyd replied. "You know me better than anyone Sherlock. Ulcers make everything hard to eat," he chuckled.

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you," he thanked Floyd as he handed him his usual amount neatly folded.

Floyd smiled. "Any time, Sherlock," he waved at him as he passed by.

Alice would've been unable to acquire food elsewhere. Either afraid of being found or lack of funds prevented him from getting anything to eat. A line that serves the needy a warm bowl without a glance is as good as it gets for Alice. Hopefully, Alice would still be there. With a crowd, Alice probably would've felt safer than he did alone. No one would tell him apart and they're not going to idly chat with him when there's food to consider. But where would he go after?

Sherlock merely smelt the air as he neared the park; they were serving a hardy stew. He heard faintly the clamoring of people. With London Park being spacious, there was bound to be people spread thinly over the entire park.

As he entered Sherlock was greeted with paper lanterns. There was a line of table with workers ladling stews into the awaiting bowls of homeless. There were people sitting at the picnic tables discussing things amongst themselves.

Sherlock surveyed the area, he gazed at every face. He listened to every voice that he could hear. If Alice was here then he shouldn't be hard to spot.

Walking through the crowds of people, Sherlock continuously glanced around. So far, he didn't see or hear Alice. Maybe he did miss him after all?

Sherlock, nevertheless, went toward the serving line and cleared his throat. A young woman ladling in stew for a woman glanced at him.

"Sir, may I help you?" she asked him.

"I was wondering if you see someone," Sherlock said to her. "A man in his late sixties, curly hair that is graying, fine lines on his face, and might've been mumbling about a raven?"

"Sir, we get at least 300 people at these serving lines. I wouldn't know a man like that from the hole in the ground," the woman shook her head.

Sherlock sighed. "Right, sorry for taking up your time," he apologized. He turned around and walked away from the serving line. Well, so much for that. There were at least 300 or more people here, there couldn't been a way for him to spot Alice nor anyone knowing where he might've gone.

Certainly shouting at the top of his lungs wouldn't get Sherlock anywhere other than being looked at as a madman.

So, what was Sherlock supposed to do?

As Sherlock mulled over his ideas, he surveyed the area. It couldn't hurt to multitask. As his light blue eyes moved back to toward the picnic tables, they were stopped. Under the tree behind the picnic tables he noticed a faint outline. Sherlock couldn't see much about it other than it loomed.

Just as his mind was about to say it was Alice, Sherlock then witnessed an event that he never witnessed before. The outline moved away from the tree, Sherlock catching glimpse of something shiny.

Before Sherlock could even get a chance to chase after, a bright flash of lighting blinded the area. Bright enough to light up the park!

As Sherlock struggled to see he spotted a peculiar sight. The outline became visible and it was a plague doctor with a bronze mask walking behind the tree. When the lighting subsided, Sherlock blinked several times. He rubbed his eyes a few more times before he chased after. He ran passed people who were murmuring about the lighting.

When he reached the tree, predictably there was nothing there. Sherlock glanced around before running toward the direction where he seen the plague doctor walk toward. As booming thunder broke the quiet gathering, Sherlock found no trace. He watched as lighting lit up the area once more, to see not even a pair of muddy footprints.

Like the phantom wind, it came and went, not even leaving a trail.


	14. Reading Between the Lines

Sherlock scoured the area. He could not find the plague doctor or Alice. The rain was coming down heavily and the lighting helped to light up the streets for brief periods. The thunder was deep and aggressive as it came soon after the lighting. Sherlock was undeterred. He stomped around corners, looking for any signs of the plague doctor or Alice.

He only briefly stopped his search when he checked his phone while under the safety of a storefront. No new texts, neither from Lestrade or John. The time was nearly 3 AM.

Sherlock pondered. While he was capable of searching through London, even he had limits. By the time he got back to the flat it'd be morning and he would've been lucky enough to get a slight cough. So, against himself, Sherlock had decided to end his search for the time being.

It took only a few minutes for Sherlock to step near a busy street and call out for a taxi. One promptly drove up to him and there he requested to be dropped off at 221B Baker Street. The cabby obliged and all Sherlock could think of was where the plague doctor gone. Could Alice have seen them and took off, driven by his fear?

Those answers were taking time to materialize. For now, Sherlock will take a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a cup of tea. And should he be able to if his mind doesn't keep him awake, he'll take the few hours he has to sleep. Then, back to the drawing board. Sherlock planned to do what he'd always done in cases like this. He'll have to retrace his steps.

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Sherlock paid the cabby and stepped out. He pulled away hair that stuck to his forehead. As he approached the door, he knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be at the door. With his bobbins that slid down his hair, he opened the door himself and headed inside.

Time was spent slugging off wet clothes and hanging them up to dry. Then much of it was in the shower. A few cups of tea and by mere 4:30 AM, Sherlock was asleep. Of course, conventionalism was never Sherlock's idea. He didn't bother to head into his room. He took to the couch and settled.

The only sound that was heard in his flat was thunder that seeped through the crevices.

Morning broke in London. The clouds had thinned to reveal the light sky as the sun was rising. The rain had stopped for the moment. The sounds of vehicles running over puddles of water collected in the street resonated in the flat.

Sherlock buried his head in the corner of the couch. His mind was slowly waking up. It heard the vehicles passing by 221B Baker Street, running over the pooling water, the sounds of people passing by. Faintly it heard the birds outside the window as they chirped. Sherlock's light blue eyes fluttered open when he heard a knock at the door. It was not his mind that had imagined it, either. Someone knocked at his door.

Groaning as he pushed himself up, Sherlock blinked several times. His eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of the faint light breaking through the curtains. Standing up, Sherlock shuffled toward the door and opened it.

Waiting for him was Lestrade. Lestrade stood there with bags under his eyes. Apparently he hadn't gotten much sleep either. "I've been texting you all morning!" Lestrade huffed as he stepped through the doorway. Sherlock shuffled to his chair and fell into it.

"I had a busy night," Sherlock mustered.

Lestrade huffed. "You had a busy night? Sherlock, I been chasing shadows. Shadows as I recall _you_ asked me to chase after," he pointed.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He gestured with his free hand. "Right, forgive me. What have you turned up?" he muttered.

Lestrade frowned. "Lenny's dead," he said grimly.

Sherlock pulled his hand away from his eyes. He stared at Lestrade. His mind hadn't fully woken yet. Surely Sherlock heard him wrong.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock inquired.

Lestrade sighed. "He's dead, Sherlock," he shook his head. "He'd gone out to his workplace, didn't show. He was found hanging from a tree."

Sherlock, remembering the scarf that he had given Lenny, asked Lestrade, "Was he hung by a scarf?"

"Ah, no he was hung by some electrical wiring. Um, but Sinclair Riverside mentioned he did go out with a blue scarf around his neck. They asked us if he was hung by that, too," Lestrade replied.

Internally, Sherlock sighed with relief. Mentally, he became unhinged.

"His scarf was taken, was there anything else taken?" Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Lestrade pondered.

"Not that we found," Lestrade responded. "If it was by scarf we'd think it was suicide. But the scarf's gone, so we're considering murder."

"Who'd murder, Lenny?" Sherlock wondered.

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe if you kindly tell me what's going on, I could offer some insight," Lestrade pointed at him. "So far as I see, you still haven't found Alice."

Sherlock exhaled. "I'm looking for him, Detective Inspector. As for the case I don't know what I'm looking for," he admitted to Lestrade. "I've plum almost exhausted everything in my mind. All I know is that Wallace and Russel have stolen the missing shipment and made money off it. Russel killed Wallace over money, that's all I've gotten," he sat back in his chair.

"So tell me what you have found," Lestrade eyed him.

Sherlock couldn't muster any strength to mock Lestrade or to say something clever and witty. He pointed to Alice's box, the paper raven, and the hobbled translations on the table with the laptop.

Lestrade moved toward it and looked at the evidence.

"If it helps you," Lestrade began as he carefully looked at the evidence. "Molly tested the blood on the bird mask. It's not Wallace's blood."

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he turned toward Lestrade.

"It's Russel Stokes' blood," Lestrade gestured to him. "We think he was injured in the scuffle with Wallace. As a precaution we checked with the nearby clinics and hospitals. If he's injured he's not getting any professional help."

"Have you found Russel?" Sherlock inquired.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, we didn't. But we did turn up his older brother. We're holding him under suspicion of aiding and abetting after we found prior arrests between him and Russel, armed robbery," he told Sherlock as he took up the translations.

"Has he said anything about Russel?" Sherlock continued.

Lestrade replied, "Asked us more questions. Apparently they've been out of touch for the last six months, he subtly hinted that they did a last job together and botched it, they got into it and they've been in the wind."

"Did he hear anything about Russel?" Sherlock watched as Lestrade thumbed the pages.

"From what he remembered, Russel had a nasty vice with gambling. Said he always used a cut of their loot to pay into it, a shark came by looking because Russel owed him money for a scam gone wrong," Lestrade responded.

Sherlock nodded. He got out of his chair and shuffled toward Lestrade. "Did you also ask if he had any drug problems, knew if he was a part of the drugs trade?" Sherlock asked.

"Nay on the drug habit, apparently they had a "no drugs" rule. As for the drugs trade, he hinted that they were willing to do anything for a coin or two, drugs included," Lestrade shrugged. He stopped. "Good god, did you use a bloody online translator?"

Sherlock eyed what Lestrade was seeing. Lestrade looked disgusted.

"Some of its okay, but the rest is rubbish, pure and simple," Lestrade pointed at the translations John made. Sherlock looked at him.

"Detective Inspector, do you know Gaelic?" Sherlock asked him.

"I may have had history with a lovely woman who taught me it," Lestrade gave a simple answer. It was as simple as he was willing to give a tidbit about his life.

"Suppose you're willing to translate it properly?" Sherlock eyed him.

Lestrade eyed back. "You expect me to translate it for you?" he summed. Sherlock nodded

"It'd be very helpful for the case. And I'll make it more attractive, Detective Inspector, I'll do the paperwork if you translate it," Sherlock gestured.

Lestrade stopped. Of all things he hated more in the world besides no parking, was the paperwork that came out of being a part of the police force. It was going to be a long time writing out the reports because of this case alone and Lestrade wasn't apt to stay in that office writing for long periods of time.

"Fine, I'll translate it. What do you need me to translate?" he asked. He was shown the copied pages from the dollars and the journal. "Alright, I'll translate them; just remember that you're responsible for getting the paperwork to my desk."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Sherlock thanked Lestrade.

Lestrade stuck the notes into his coat's inner pockets. "Yeah, yeah, I'll have them by the end of the night if I'm not caught up in this. Alright, get dressed," he said simply.


	15. And Then There Was Two

It felt like it'd been hours. But it was only half an hour before Sherlock and Lestrade arrived at the crime scene. John had arrived first and was waiting for Sherlock near the parked cars. Sherlock shuffled toward him.

"Sherlock," John coughed.

"John," Sherlock gave a slight nod.

John's dark eyes glimpsed to the hanging body of Lenny. "Time of death is midnight," John told Sherlock. "Rain washed away most of the blood and any lingering evidence."

"Did you find the scarf?" Sherlock inquired. John shook his head.

"No, I think it might've gotten lost in the scuffle. Donovan and Anderson haven't been able to find anything," John responded.

Sherlock slowly nodded.

John shook his head, "Who'd kill Lenny?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock murmured.

John turned to him, "What if he was the missing link?"

"If he was the missing link, I'm having trouble figuring out how he fits into it," Sherlock crossed his arms.

"The bloody handprints, Sherlock," John began. "It was his window. I checked with the facility while I was at home, the windows have a Safety Guard installed. A person shouldn't've been able to get through it with one installed."

"So what do you think?" Sherlock blinked.

"I asked them to check Lenny's window. His was broken. It was so broken they don't even know how it got that way or how they didn't notice it. And yes, I did check with the manufacturer. They are put through strenuous tests and various scenarios. They can't be easily broken but they do have limits. I'm told a good whack with a sledgehammer is only good enough to crack the shell," John shrugged.

"Russel could've broken it getting in," Sherlock gestured. John shook his head.

"Sherlock, someone would've heard him breaking it," John reminded him.

Sherlock chewed on his lips. "I'm not sure what we're looking for anymore, John," he admitted.

John frowned. "As far as we know, Lenny knew something that would've implicated Russel. He's still missing and I'm told that they have his brother in custody," he encouraged Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "Right, we'll muster strength through this then ask him," he mustered.

The murder took place thirty minutes away from where Lenny worked. It meant someone was waiting for Lenny. The tree near it was the gallows. The tree was 3 meters tall. Lenny was a mere 1.8. Lenny was average weight. From looking at the tree, the duo was given a grim implication. Someone was standing there, tugging on the rope and causing Lenny immense pain. Then when they were done, they tied the rope around the bark and went on their merry way.

What did Lenny know and was it enough to cause his death?

How come he didn't try to run?

Did he know his killer?

Well, Russel's brother was in custody. With encouragement from Sherlock, Russel's brother ought to tell him what he needs to know.

Sherlock and John stood near the tree as Donovan and Anderson were struggling to understand the brutality of the crime.

"He struggled, look at the neckline," Anderson pointed out.

"Who'd kill a man like him?" Donovan questioned.

"Insanity is often not explainable," Lestrade called out to them.

Sherlock looked at the neckline. Lenny struggled well until his death. Rope burns from him twisting and turning. Unfortunately he didn't prevail.

"Did anyone hear anything?" Sherlock asked.

He heard, "No one heard anything."

How can no one hear a man dying?

Sherlock looked at the rope that hung Lenny. It was a simple braided rope that anyone could buy. Strong enough to hold Lenny and long enough for the killer to watch Lenny slowly die before them. Whoever it was, either a sick man or someone with a lot to lose. Sherlock opted for both.

"He knew his killer, John; why else would he not run?" Sherlock looked at John.

"You're saying it was Russel?" John looked back.

Sherlock nodded. "Lenny had to of known something that would set Russel off," he theorized.

"What could've he known?" John wondered.

Lenny was a simple man who liked his planes, his Legos, and his GIs, how or why he became involved with this convoluted case was beyond Sherlock's scope. However, he couldn't deny the randomness of Lenny's death. Once more, Sherlock and John were left quizzed. This case had gone from a simple but complicated case to a full-blown complicated one and it only sought to rile Sherlock further as he worked to solve it.

First, Wallace was killed. He was selling drugs from the stolen shipment and Russel helped scare Alice from speaking about the theft. Second, Lenny was killed. Yet, it didn't seem like he had anything to do with the case. And then, there was still the lingering question about where in the world is Alice.

Sherlock did not want to fold his hand and allow Lestrade to send his men to find Alice. If Alice knew what was going on, he wasn't going to tell it to Lestrade. But then, would Alice tell Sherlock what he needs to know?

He did pay Sherlock. But then one had to consider he was giving Sherlock evidence. The American dollars were linked somehow and Sherlock wasn't able to figure it out. So, back to square one once again, and Sherlock hated it.

"His room is the farthest," Sherlock watched as men carefully cut down the rope and lay the body on a gurney. "His Safety Guard was broken."

"Sherlock, what if that's what it meant," John suddenly said. Sherlock looked at him.

"The paper raven, the sonnet, it said someone's end was near. Around midnight, it said. What if it meant Lenny," John gestured.

Sherlock cringed. He never thought about the damned sonnet until now. His mind was so intent on everything else that it skipped over the sonnet. Whether or not the note threatened Lenny specifically, Sherlock didn't know. It made him ravaged with madness!

How could he not know the answers?

How could he not solve this case?

What is going on here?

Was he involved, the one in the plague doctor costume?

Sherlock's eyes lit up. When he was searching for Alice, Sherlock was blinded by lighting. In the bright flash he witnessed a peculiar figure walking behind the tree in London Park.

"It had to been Russel," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He must've gotten another mask and is using it to hide from police. It was the only logical explanation Sherlock had.

Sherlock sighed. He glanced at John.

"I'm going to speak with Russel's brother. Lestrade is translating the copies you wrote. Why don't you head to Oxford and see to the bodies?" Sherlock told him.

John nodded. "Right, I'll tell you if I find anything," he responded.

"And find out what Lenny knew," Sherlock said as he passed John toward the exit.

Torres Stokes, aged 42, around 1.8 meters tall, and had three file cabinets dedicated to his and his brother's dealings. He had dark olive skin, greased hair, olive eyes, and tattoos that covered much of his arms and parts of his neck. He and his brother came from a small fishing town in Spain sometime in the late 1990s. They were homeless and sufficed by stealing. Eventually, they took to the criminal lifestyle entirely and worked together to commit multiple robberies. For a time they were in the United States for a job. Fencing diamonds and running drugs, they managed to evade police by stealing passports and fleeing to Mexico.

They remained until they were able to reenter Great Britain under assumed identities. Because of this they became weary and started to case jobs before deciding whether or not to do them. It worked well for them. With money from their work, they managed to live a simple life. Unlike their counterparts who rather flaunt their illegal wealth, the Stokes brothers kept their wealth under wraps. Torres studied mathematics and worked out a way to use their illegal funds without drawing attention. Russel worked odd jobs, legal ones.

Forward to now, Torres had been on the lam. His brother left over a dispute after a botched robbery and so he was unable to do anything else. Brothers in arms until death, their oath said.

There he was sitting in the chair in the interrogation room. He wore a simple leather coat and jeans with tears in the knees. He settled when he spotted Sherlock entering.

"They sent you?" Torres pointed.

Sherlock looked at him.

"I came by my own volition," he said to Torres as he sat down in the chair across from him. "You must be Torres."

"You find my brother yet?" Torres asked him.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Cops, comes when you don't want them to, doesn't do their job when they should," Torres spat as he looked away from Sherlock in contempt.

"I am not a police officer," Sherlock corrected him. "I am a detective."

"Aren't they the same?" Torres glanced back, gesturing with his hand.

Sherlock shook his head again. "No, they're not mutually exclusive," he explained.

"Still the same, just a different name," Torres told him. "It's no different than on the streets."

"Mr. Stokes, I'd like to ask a few questions, about your brother specifically," Sherlock coughed.

Torres settled in his chair as he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back. Torres had dealt with police of all kind and seemingly knew how to read them the same way Sherlock read others. It was a skill that he carefully cultivated during the early years of his criminal career and it served him well.

He read Sherlock as Sherlock read him. They both wanted the same thing: answers. Torres wanted to know where his brother was and Sherlock wanted to know what pieces he is missing. Both wanted to know what was going on.

"I met many cops back in the day. Some you just knew were bad. Some that knew how to work the system in their favor. And some that wouldn't show their true colors until they get caught," Torres coughed. He tilted his head at Sherlock. "But from looking at you. You ain't a cop I've seen. Your stance is different and your demeanor lacks the hidden lust that police have a nasty habit of developing. If I'd make a comment about you, you aren't a pig. Nah, you're a dragon, you eat pigs. You take what you need and _only_ what you need. No one messes with you and you don't mess with them."

"Should I take it as a compliment?" Sherlock asked him.

Torres chortled loudly, clapping loudly. He snorted as he attempted to catch his breath. Eventually he did and he wiped the pooling tears under his eyes. "Well, you sure as hell ain't no damn pig, that's for sure," he chuckled.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Your brother, did he have a legal job before he left?" he inquired.

Torres pondered. He counted with his fingers. He said to Sherlock, "Yeah, he worked as a construction worker in 'Chester."

"Did he quit?" Sherlock continued.

Torres shrugged. "When he left, I assumed he kept going to work. They called me and said his last paycheck was going to be in the next day mail," he said.

"So he did quit. Did he ever mention going to medical school, even becoming a doctor or a nurse?" Sherlock gestured.

"My brother may be slow at times, but even he knew getting into that was trouble," Torres shook his head. "You need to be registered and take an oath. With our history, you think he'd get anywhere near that point?"

"So how would he become a nurse?" Sherlock watched Torres.

Torres rubbed his five o' clock shadow. "Hah, if he was that stupid I'd say he falsified his records. Easy to do, but easy to screw up if you're not careful, people don't really look into your records. They're only looking for what they want to see. But, nowadays you can't just show a job history and claim you know this, this, and that anymore. It's all on the internet now. All they'd do is look up your Facebook and that's it! You can steal someone else's life, buy a fake one, but even then, they're too rigid in the process. Sure you can be an unregistered nurse or a doctor, but why would you open yourself to more charges when you're caught," he explained to Sherlock. "My brother would not become a nurse without someone looking at him twice and that is a fact."

"What say if _he_ didn't falsify his records, he received help from someone who was capable of such feat?" Sherlock inquired.

Torres scratched at his face. He muttered under his breath.

"Well, anyone can be bought. You just need to know the numbers to ask. When it comes to falsifying records, they need to pepper it with the entire lingo for it to work. Jobs do check for that. And they also know all the websites where you could copy paragraphs. Suppose my brother did get help from someone at the top of the food chain. They would need to be convincing, and they'd need to know who the right people to talk to are," Torres shrugged.

"What would you say if I told you, your brother was an accomplice to stealing a shipment of drugs, and that he was corresponding with an administrator, could an administrator falsify such records?" Sherlock asked Torres.

Torres put a leg over another.

"Hm, we never worked with an administrator on our jobs. If they're the same as the old crime lords we ran back in the day, then I have to say no. It'd be suspicious if an administrator were to provide such squeaky clean record to the board. Also, it takes time to get approved anyhow," Torres shook his head. He sighed. "But then, suppose the administrator you're talking about has connections of his own. Connections that include someone on the board and the committee that follows. As well as everyone else who can be bought and paid for. If he had that, suppose my brother was able to sling into a job as a nurse. But then, why would he waste his breath to get my brother a job as a nurse?"

He stopped. "We were in business for years. We saw more money than anyone we knew. But we weren't ignorant. We learned as we robbed and shilled. People think they're pulling the strings. They're not. They're being pulled by somebody else. Stealing drugs is hardly a feat. But an administrator stealing it, it doesn't make sense."

Sherlock tilted his head. He leaned forward. "Why wouldn't it, people do things for money all the time," he reminded Torres.

Torres frowned. "No, listen to me. This doesn't make sense. We stole and sold drugs, yeah, but this isn't right," he shook his head.

"What if I told you that the shipment was stolen in daylight, there were two but only one was taken, and there were American dollars involved?" Sherlock watched as Torres' expression changed. Something spooked him.

"We don't deal American. Exchanging currencies is a bitch when you're a criminal. And as for that, that is not how we do it," Torres shook his head. He leaned forward. "We always steal however many shipment there are, no trace. And it might surprise you, but we don't steal from the mental. Not because that's low, but because of the tracking numbers and they're closely watched for by the police. Police know what drugs to look out for and dealers are likely to fess up when the time comes anyhow. There's too much risk."

"What if he and the administrator were dealing?" Sherlock could tell this was stirring Torres.

"No. We _did_ sell drugs to those in power, but this isn't something he'd do. You don't work deals with strangers. Much less a stranger who falsified your records that could pin this all on you when they feel the need to hop on a plane and fly to the Caribbean while you rot in prison. Listen, I don't know what the hell my brother did, but this isn't his M.O. or ours. Someone's pulling his strings and so is that administrator," Torres bit down on his knuckle.

"The administrator is dead, a person was found dead this morning, and your brother is missing," Sherlock summed for him.

Torres glanced around the room, almost checking to see if someone was listening in.

"From a criminal to a career nutcase, believe me when I say that you're not the only one wising up. If I know my brother those drugs should've been on the street by now. But they're not. Not a peep. As for that dead administrator, we shoot people who step on us in the head, point blank, always. He did not kill that administrator," Torres' voice wavered. "We saw this a dozen times over the years. A guy does a job, he doesn't know who he's answering to. He ends up stepping on unseen toes and ends up in a gutter somewhere. Then the next guy does his job and starts asking the wrong questions. He's not seen again."

"If Russel did not kill the administrator or the person, then who did and why would your brother be on the run if he didn't do it?" Sherlock finally asked.

Torres responded. "Our mother used to tell us, "We're not afraid of the darkness. We're only afraid of what's in it". And we held that in our hearts. Look in the darkness and see what's in it, you might get your answers by doing it. But you might just see what you don't want to see," his voice becoming soft and low.


	16. Nothing is What it Seems

The bodies of Wallace and Lenny rested neatly on the tables. They were readied to be examined and both John and Molly both wondered what they were going to find from the autopsy.

Molly overlooked them as she tried to make sense of what she was told.

John grabbed for a pair of gloves and pulled them over his hands. He headed to Wallace's body and carefully tilted the head. Though the same prognosis, one more thwack by the murder weapon and his head would've caved in.

Molly had pried loose black flakes from the wounds that weren't washed away from the rain. From looking at the wound closely, she pointed out that there were splinters around the swollen areas.

John used tweezers to pull them out and secure them in a petri dish until he could discern their origins. He heard Molly, "Wooden splinters, black flecks, I don't want to be wrong, but it sounds like he was beaten with a cane."

"Could've been a bat," John reminded her.

Molly shrugged. "I'm not one for sports. I didn't think they'd have black baseball bats," she mentions.

Black baseball bats seemed farfetched, but there were always custom orders and limited edition repaints of ordinary bats. The only problem was that there were many sports stores in London that Russel could've gone into and bought a bat from. Even with a good eye and a strenuous search, it could become complicated. As if the case wasn't even more complicated as it is.

"Oh, they're about, you just have to look," John told her as he used the magnifying glass connected to the table to peer at Wallace's wounds. "Oy, must've have been a heated argument."

"If they were arguing about money, why hadn't anyone heard them?" Molly wondered.

John sighed. He wondered that too. Unless they somehow they had a peaceful talk that ended violently, he was as confused as Molly was about the entire thing.

"So much of this damn case makes no bloody sense," John shook his head.

Molly frowned. She comforted John. "You managed to solve the impossible nevertheless," she reminded him.

"I'm starting to think this is impossible," John exhaled as he looked over to Lenny's body. "I barely got any sleep last night."

"Do you think someone threatened your life?" Molly asked him.

John replied, "I did for the moment. Why would someone give a threatening note to Mrs. Hudson if there was a chance Sherlock would've gotten it?"

"I don't know. It seems very specific that it was talking about you, the note. Why didn't it talk about Sherlock?" Molly grabbed for the camera nearby and shot pictures of Wallace's head. "Why would they give a note to Mrs. Hudson if she would see their face?"

"Somehow I don't think Russel would go the extra mile just to rile us up. If he did come by, why would he if he knew he was being looked for?" John shrugged. He watched as Molly took shots of Wallace's chest that had severe bruising. Broken ribs from the weapon, likely he was beaten on the ground before he crawled his way toward the fountain.

"So, who would?" Molly looked at John.

John sighed. This case was making the Morarity cases look like child's play.

After they processed Wallace's body and conclude that he did in fact suffer catastrophic trauma to the brain. He also suffered broken ribs, a pierced lung, and injuries to the stomach and lower intestine. If he didn't bleed to death in his head, something else would've killed him.

"So, he strikes his head first. That accounts why no one heard anything. He was barely to make sense of what was happening. Then he became an oat sack and got beaten to a bloody pulp," John summed. "God, wonder how much money Russel lost out on for him to take a bat to Wallace."

"Have they found the drugs?" Molly glanced up at him as she gently raised Wallace's hand to scrap under his nails.

"I'm not sure if they'll be able to, rip off a label, stick the drugs in another container, I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't," John answered as he scrapped the underside of Wallace's other hand. Black specks were collected and looked to come from the weapon. Wallace tried to grab it, Russel pulled it away from him and so the story goes.

Molly glimpsed at the arm she held. "John, look at this," she showed him. She gently moved the body to show that on the back of the shoulder blade was a tattoo: a raven in flight.

John stared. "I didn't picture a man like him to have a tattoo," Molly said to him. He lightly touched the shoulder blade. It was a black inked raven and from the appearance alone, it looked to have been a painful thing to have gotten. It looked as if the tattoo artist accidentally jabbed the flesh several times and left permanent scarring, the flesh around the raven tattoo puffed up from it. John quickly snapped a photograph and the two looked at each other.

"Looks old," Molly noted.

"A paper raven and a tattooed raven," John muttered under his breath. He stopped when he noticed something else. He never gave thought when he saw at the crime scene, he assumed at the time that it was because of Russel grabbing Wallace's arm. But as he looked, both Wallace's wrists were discolored. Looking closely, they were old injuries, but it gave appearance that Wallace was either cuffed or restrained at some point.

And as Molly showed him, he was correct; there were two identical discolorations on Wallace's ankles.

"Could've he been in prison?" Molly looked at John.

John mulled it over. He shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted.

Finishing up, they changed focus to Lenny. There, it was almost identical. A raven was tattooed on his shoulder blade and he had discoloration of the wrists and ankles. Looking at his neck, someone knew exactly the length of rope to use. Both John and Molly were left to think about the implications as they overlooked Lenny's body. From where it stood, it appeared that both men were at some point restrained and forcibly tattooed. Why were they restrained, John hadn't a clue. He didn't even know where to begin from here.

The theory that circulated through his mind most was that it had to do with the raven tattoo. They were forcibly restrained and given the tattoo for an unknown reason. The reason for and the context the raven tattoo served were still in the air. Given the men's ages, John couldn't really tell. But then he remembered the note he received from Mrs. Hudson.

Suppose there was more to the note than he realized. They were _ravens_. Perched and always watching, like spies. Spies for who and why, John hadn't figured out rightly, but it seemed like a good theory. The actual raven was indeed a ploy. A ploy that John should've picked up on earlier but was already shaken up as it is. So, who were they watching?

The only connection that came to mind came to no surprise to John. They were both watching Alice. Why Alice, John hadn't figured. But then, where was Russel in all this?

John didn't know. Since neither Russel or Alice could be found at the time, the case furthered in becoming entangled. Entangled in what, John would guess a conspiracy.

"What does it mean?" Molly asked him. He blinked before he glanced at her.

"It means we need Alice, now," John passed her toward the doorway.

He stopped and turned to her. "I'm having Lestrade send someone your way. If anything should happen or you feel unsafe, call us," he instructed her.

Molly stood there. "What's going on?" she asked him.

He replied. "There's a raven in flight," he only said as he went through the doorway, leaving Molly with a bemused look on her face.

Someone was using ravens. And it appeared they were using both kinds. Both people and bird, they were watching, waiting, for what, John could only guess.


	17. Knights and Jesters

John met Sherlock back at his flat. Both had looks on their faces. John had texted Sherlock the discoveries he and Molly made. Sherlock was concerned when he learned that Lenny and Wallace were tattooed forcibly against their will. Someone kidnapped them, tied them up, and tattooed them, as for why that happened, Sherlock's mind crept toward the idea it was because of Alice. He remembered what Alice had told him and what he learned from Sinclair Riverside. Alice had witnessed the theft of a shipment of medicine and was tormented by Russel. His mind wondered if perhaps Russel was capable of such feats that it thought about.

"Suppose that the tattoos are his signature," John looked at Sherlock.

It was plausible. It was no different than a killer developing his signatures. With all things considering, it was exactly that. Someone had adducted them and tattooed the raven as means to force compliance. A way to remind them how easy it was to get to them, a reminder of what will happen if they did not follow through with whatever was in mind. And killing them was a way to ensure they didn't give up any damning evidence. To the police it'd be nothing more than a madman going about. But to Sherlock and John, it was a clue they could use right now. A raven tattoo, a paper raven, Alice talking about a raven stalking him, solid theories were forming in the two's minds. The most conclusive of all things in the case were ravens. Ravens of various kinds and ravens are well known for their intelligence and macabre stature in literature history. Someone either chose the bird as their signature or they were a great fan of Edgar Allan Poe. It was becoming like a Poe tale from how it was starting to look. And often or not, Poe tales often ended with tragedy. What horrid tragedy is set to befell, neither Sherlock nor John knew. All they knew was that the raven was their link.

"Someone kidnapped them and tied them up. They were tattooed against their will," Sherlock was going over the thoughts in his mind. It made sense. Wallace was in position of power. Granted it was not a position of power that could've been lucrative. It was enough for whoever involved making money off of. Lenny was someone chosen purely because no one would suspect a jovial man like him. Something wasn't adding up. Wallace was someone who'd be expected to carry some American dollars from his trip to the States. But then, how did Alice get a hold of the dollars?

And how did he write those messages?

It was something that was going to gnaw on Sherlock until he figured it out.

"What if they were being blackmailed?" John raised a finger. "Think about it. What reason would there be for all this if it wasn't blackmail?"

"If it was, what were they being blackmailed for?" Sherlock questioned. It was plausible. If someone couldn't be paid off then the only way to ensure silence and compliance was blackmailing them. Then how were they paying their blackmailer?

"If they were being blackmailed, why didn't we find an anomaly in their accounts?" Sherlock blinked at John as John crossed his arms, stumped.

"What if it wasn't about money?" John theorized. "What if our blackmailer didn't care about money what if he wanted something else from them?"

"Information," Sherlock's voice wavered.

Whoever it was wanted information. They don't care about money. No, money wasn't their interest. Money wasn't on their radar at all. Information was good as money to them. As for what information the men knew, likely, neither Sherlock nor John was going to find out. It certainly wasn't sensitive information, or else Mycroft would've sent for Sherlock and John. So what information was it that the men knew that their blackmailer wanted and what did they know to ensure they get what they want?

It was starting to look that Russel was just another pawn in a deadly game. Given his extensive history, he would've been a prime target. He was perfect; too, he couldn't say anything or else risk prison. And the blackmailer knew who was looking for him and knew how to ensure that he couldn't run far. Get a criminal as a pawn and he'll be as useful as long as you have information and material that could send him to the far reaches of prison with no chance of retrial.

Torres was right. Someone else was involved. Who that was, Sherlock could only guess.

"We need to find Alice," John looked at Sherlock. Alice was the only way to solve the case and the efforts made to find him have been maddening. No one seen him nor had any elderly man fitting his description turned up at clinics or hospitals. Both Sherlock and John were afraid that Alice might've been killed, too.

Sherlock frowned. This case had begun to eat at him. Few cases ever do but this one is starting to prey upon him. A man of virtue, though some might disagree, even he couldn't think about the idea that Alice was dead.

"I don't even know where to begin," Sherlock admitted. With everything that happened, Sherlock wasn't sure if he had everything that he needed to finally solve the case. So far this case has taken swift turns and harsh rights and because of it two men were dead, two were missing, and there was fear that the only witness is already dead.

Torres was insightful and told Sherlock everything he needed to know. Well, not everything of course. He told Sherlock that his brother would've never worked as a nurse given his and his brother's records. Someone, not Wallace, had the power to get Russel the job without having anyone second guessing or looking. Who that was, Sherlock was still working on it. As for Russel, Lestrade's men haven't been able to find him. If the idea that a third party is involved holds any weight, likely, Russel would've ended up like Wallace and Lenny and he will too have a raven tattoo.

As for Wallace and Lenny, there seemed to be nothing that could be used as leverage.

Wallace and Lenny were ten years or so apart. From looking at their available records that were forwarded to their cellphones, neither man had met or knew each other existed until then. If there was a connection between them, Sherlock wasn't seeing it. John looked through the records again and from what it looked; Wallace went through legal channels to get where he was. Lenny also went through legal channels to get to his former occupation. They were legal to an extent and the financial records showed neither man owed money or even gambled.

They paid their bills, not always on time or in full, but nothing suspicious. The billers confirmed that nothing unusual came to their attention, just men asking for a minor extension to pay certain bills. So the loan shark theory was out.

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Where could've he gone, John, it's London he should be at Buckingham Palace of all places," he huffed.

"Well, I asked Sara if Alice mentioned anything. Any places he would've gone to if he could. If he would go somewhere familiar," John began. "Alice mentioned that when he was younger he always wanted to come to London. Said that he wanted to see the sights and when he switched medicine, he became silent. She tried to get him to tell her where he would've gone but he never said."

"Did she say anything about his medications?" Sherlock looked at John.

John answered. "She couldn't tell me outright. But she said that Alice would likely have withdrawal syndrome and forwarded me a list just in case Alice is in a grumpy mood when we find him," he sighed.

"When," Sherlock trailed. He frowned.

John shook his head. He said to Sherlock, "He couldn't've gone far. Come on Sherlock, you're the Great Detective, if you can figure out Morarity you can figure out this!"

That was true.

Sherlock did manage to figure out life's enigma that was Morarity. But, he was attention seeking, driven mad, sort of man who wanted Sherlock to find him, to figure out his dangerous games, and such. He even intentionally set himself up to lose just to lure Sherlock into a false sense of security, all for the sake to prove him wrong on whatever notion he conceded upon. Morarity, though forever no doubt the greatest enigma that ever existed, wouldn't have done all this to get Sherlock's attention.

Morarity might've done anything, but generally, he wouldn't've allowed men like Wallace or Lenny to live. They would've seen his face, would've spoiled his fun, and if there's anything that Sherlock can say about Morarity is that he doesn't like having his fun spoiled. Those who spoiled it often don't come home in one piece or at all.

Using Morarity as his basis, Sherlock concluded that the case wasn't about drawing his or John's attention. Whatever this case, convoluted and all, was about, it seemed to be less interested in involving them. If that were the case, then at least one of them would've received a warning of some sort.

It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock was beaten like a potato sack as a warning by someone. Nor was it his first getting threatening letters or messages. Truth be told, Sherlock expected some sort of threat to come his way because of his involvement in the case. He of course was the type to draw that sort of attention.

So, where was he going with all this?

Alice wouldn't come to them nor leave them any means to find him. Afraid of what his medications induced, Alice would be in hiding and likely was able to avoid Russel. Russel wasn't found so Sherlock deduced that if he found Russel he would find Alice. Assuming of course, Alice was still alive.

"Did Russel's brother say anything more about where he might've gone?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked a couple of times before looking at John.

"He said that if they were ever running from the law that they would lay low. But, he said that his brother wasn't as cautious. So, if not in a morgue, likely, he's somewhere in an open area," Sherlock responded.

John scratched at his chin and shook his head. "Can you trust him, though; they were brothers in crime if I'm told right. What if he's just covering for his brother?" John suggested to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "He's not covering for his brother. I do believe in a rare display, he's genuinely worried about his brother and wants us to find him alive. He has no reason to lie to me John, we both read each other. Why lie to someone who already knows all the answers?" Sherlock pointed this out to John.

John sighed and shifted weight. This case has been the bane of their lives and it'd only been two days. Two days of non-stop working around the clock and they haven't figured out much. Aside from Wallace, Russel, and Alice, they haven't figured out much about Lenny and his connection. Though as Sherlock had once pointed out, as much as they'd want a case to be solved, terrible consequences will follow if they should get careless in their attempts to solve their cases quickly. Slow and steady, though tedious and longwinded, was the only way for them to go. And that was what they would follow.

"He was a policeman, so what if he were to go to a museum?" John suddenly suggested. "What if he went to London Museum to see the exhibition?"

London Museum had an exhibition dedicated to the history of the profession. Given what little they knew about Alice, it'd be a good place to start.

"Right, if he went there then someone had to see him. The cameras would be a start," Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

John looked at him, concerned. "Perhaps I ought to come with. You can't expect to find Alice by yourself, yeah?" he offered.

Sherlock thought about it. John was correct. Despite his homeless network, Sherlock wasn't having any luck. He ran around in a downpour after a plague doctor only to end in futile. With John around Sherlock could at least ensure he wouldn't miss anything else.

"Right you are John, I can't do this alone," Sherlock shook his head.

John nodded, "Atta boy."


	18. It's Always the Simplest Answers

London Museum had been the pinnacle for history since its creation. A large towering building that contains multitudes of exhibitions dedicated to subjects ranging from dinosaurs to objects collected throughout the years. A highly respected institute, it was a place of interest for any looking into a particular history. It was also a place where a young Sherlock once went with his brother when their parents were away to help an ailing relative. It was where Sherlock got his first taste for crime, where he pointed out to a tour guide that a rib in the display of a genuine tyrannosaurus rex (or commonly referred to as the T-Rex) was a fake. After some deliberation and Mycroft pretending Sherlock wasn't his brother as he scudded toward a group of girls, it was discovered that indeed the rib was a fake. It appeared that one of the curators was in desperate need of money and decided that a rib could've easily been faked without anyone noticing and stole the real one and sold it for a little over ten thousand pounds. He was convicted of theft and Sherlock earmarked the event as the reason he chose the detective profession. As for Mycroft, his attempts to avoid being associated with Sherlock backfired tremendously. Although Sherlock didn't care for the fawning girls who liked his book smarts, he received plenty of unrequited phone numbers while Mycroft received nothing of the sort. Mycroft refused to talk to him for a week.

For John, he had a different experience from Sherlock. He came to London Museum on a trip with his classmates. It was rather boring with the tour guides droning on about the significance of a dinosaur skeleton. So, John did what Sherlock would be proud of, he and his mates decided to get away from the tour and decide to walk their own path. His mates wanted a peep at some of the more "adult" exhibitions while John, being the sensible man he always was, went with a trip to the medical exhibition. It captivated him seeing all the displays of medical ware and the displays of diseased limbs and bodies in jars. He saw all the snake oil tricks that men and women used over the years to swindle money from those less knowledgeable and the cure-alls that did nothing they were intended for and caused tragic health issues down the line. There were displays about the history of radium being used in the dials of watches and how it caused women pain and agony, with several pictures of bedridden women, withering away with several having their mouths held up by sheets tied to their heads as their jaws fell away from the skull, until they all died. Not for naught, though tragic, the catastrophic event forced lawmakers of then to pass laws that ensured the event would never happen again. A sordid sight to be sure, but it was history and regardless of how tragic or disturbing it was, it was better to learn than to be ignorant. His walk around the exhibition made John realize his calling, he wanted to help people, help them no matter how it might become a futile task. And it was this event that drove him to go into the service and become a medical doctor.

In the present, it was the same as the men saw it many years ago.

"Ah, I haven't been here for a while," John glanced up to the hanging banners. "It must've been at least around fifteen years since I came here with my classmates."

"I've been here once or twice since," Sherlock mustered. John turned to him.

"I take it Mycroft hasn't stepped foot in it," he smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back. "Only if he's requested," he gave a nod to John.

"And how often is he requested?" John inquired.

Sherlock answered, "He doesn't talk to me a week each time."

"Must've been a while since he talked to you, then," John gave a nod.

Sherlock snorted. "As if I asked to be bombarded!" he reminded John.

"Ah well, you know what they say about holding onto grudges," John walked up the steps toward the towering entrance.

He heard Sherlock behind him, "It's not a grudge, John, its warfare."

"How come I and my sister can talk at least twice a week and you two can't even be in a room together without setting the other off?" John wondered. He heard Sherlock's response.

"We're brothers, John, it's expected of us," Sherlock pointed a finger at him as he stepped up a step to stand beside him.

"No it's not, you two are just jealous of each other," John muttered under his breath.

Sibling rivalry at its finest, the Holmes brothers were never known to run out of ways to insult or degrade each other for any reason. Give them ammo and they will use it and they will throw their guns at each other when there is no ammo left. Their rivalry goes as far back the two existed. For a little while, Mycroft enjoyed the solidarity of being the only child. Birthdays with his parents and relatives with presents up to his eyeballs, rugby until sundown with his mates, and not having to share a room with anyone, a grand time for Mycroft, until the conception and birth of his nemesis, his little brother Sherlock. It was told in the legend that the brothers for a time didn't acknowledge each other. Sherlock was tended to by their parents as he was the youngest. Mycroft found every excuse to get out of their home. But then their mother did the one thing she probably regrets to this day, introducing them to each other. From then, a rivalry was born and hell was to pay for each other's incursions. They found ways to ruin each other's fun. They locked each other out of the house. They even tried to leave each other behind when they and their parents were out!

A rivalry of the ages, it was. And it continued well into adulthood. Sherlock became a detective that is relied on by those in power and Mycroft has to begrudgingly call upon his brother when it comes to any cases tying to powerful figures and those like Irene.

Despite their aggressions toward one another, there had been rumors lingering around that despite the two's rivalry, or their warfare as they called it, the two did in fact care about each other. There was a rumor that once as a child, Sherlock was bullied relentlessly and when Mycroft caught wind of it, he marched his way toward the offending party's home, dragged him by the ear, and forced an apology out of him. Then threatened retaliation in a brotherly fashion then sent the crying boy home to his mummy. Sherlock got a sundae out of it and Mycroft showed that despite it all, he did in fact care, at least a little. Another rumor circulated that it was the same for Sherlock. Mycroft was subjected to rumors that caused his self-esteem to plummet and caused him to lose interest in his schoolwork. Being the clever boy that he was, Sherlock tracked down the source of those venomous rumors and beat an apology out of them. Whether these rumors were true or not, neither men were willing to confess nor would they be willing. They were destined to continue this warfare well into their afterlives. Or until they had to share a table with their family during the holidays, they were still terrified of their mother, after all.

"It's not jealously, John," Sherlock went toward the entrance with his arms behind his back.

John followed behind. As he did, he asked, "Then what is it then?"

"Warfare," he heard Sherlock as he disappeared into the museum.

John shook his head. "I'll never understand them," he muttered under his breath as he hurried to catch up to Sherlock.

Sherlock tracked down a handful of tour guides known to go through the criminology exhibition. There were three and they were on break, sitting around a table with two teas and one coffee. They were bemused at the sight of Sherlock and John.

John retrieved the current picture of Alice he gotten from Sara on his cellphone and showed them. Sherlock talked to them about it.

"Have you seen this man recently?" Sherlock asked them.

The three looked at the picture attentively.

The young man, Owen, shook his head. "No, I never seen him," he answered.

"I've toured around the museum with some older gentlemen, but they were mostly interested in automobiles," answered the young woman, Martha, on his right.

The older woman, Helen, had a peculiar look on her. She pointed at the picture. "Aye, I saw him in the group when we toured the criminology exhibition. The moment he inquired about one of our displays, my mouth dropped. He had the same accent as my own mother," she said to Sherlock.

Sherlock and John stared at her.

John coughed as he managed to say, "Same accent as your mother?"

Helen nodded. "Yes, she was from Galahad, too!" she smiled.

Sherlock pointed at her. "Do you know where he went?" he asked her.

She nodded again. "Of course, after I led the tour we began to talk and the poor man wasn't accustomed to London and had no place to stay. Thankfully my mum called me to ask when I was going to be home and well, she seemed happy to take him in," she gestured.

Sherlock and John looked at each other. Their mouths to the floor and their eyes widened. Alice was alive and he was under their nose!

"Madam, where does your mother live?" Sherlock asked her.

"It's important we talk to him," John explained.

Helen nodded and told them where her mother lived. Sherlock wrote it down mentally and John made quick scratches on his notepad.

Sherlock bowed his head to Helen, bid her and the two tour guides farewell, turned around and ran toward the entrance. John bowed his head too before he ran after Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what are you going to do when you see him?" John asked.

Sherlock coughed, "I'm going to ask him what the hell is going on!"

"And what are we going to do about him?" John continued. "You know Lestrade and the others will expect us to turn Alice over."

"Alice knows something about the raven, John," he heard Sherlock as he jumped out of the doorway.


	19. Aren't You the Detective?

Sherlock rushed out of London Museum with John far behind to run into Lestrade. Lestrade had a concerned look on his face as he looked at John and Sherlock. Sherlock quickly said, "I found a lead, I'm going to it right now!"

"Russel's dead," Lestrade grimly said to Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and took a deep breath. John looked at Lestrade.

"Russel's dead?" John blinked. Lestrade nodded. John couldn't believe it either judging from looking at Sherlock's reaction. Russel was dead and it only confirmed their worst fears. Someone else was involved and it meant that this case had just gotten deadlier. "What happened to him?"

"He was found in a rubbish bin behind a franchise," Lestrade began as he thumbed through the pages he wrote on his pad. "Rubbish men found him when they were making their rounds and called us. We also found the missing drugs, right near his body, no needle marks that we can tell and it doesn't seem like anything's missing. Sinclair Riverside sent over a list of the missing drugs, all accounted for. Not even a dint in any of the packages. We're inclined to believe from what we seen that we're dealing with a murderer."

"What did Russel die of?" Sherlock inquired. Lestrade told him.

"His throat was slit, we think it was a body dump because we didn't find corpus amount of blood at the scene. Unless you have any idea what the hell we're dealing with, we're lost," Lestrade shrugged his shoulders as he shook his head at them, clearly frustrated too.

"Detective Inspector I believe there's someone else involved," Sherlock looked at him. "Someone was using these men, for what I don't know, but there is someone else. It's not about the drugs, they wanted information, they only had them take the drugs so it'd look like a drug deal gone wrong. It wasn't about the money, they wanted information. Information I don't know what about because none of these men have ever encountered each other until recently."

Lestrade stopped him and gave him some of his thoughts about what's happening. He pointed at Sherlock, "Sherlock, suppose that this whole thing was drummed up by one man, one man who knew these victims, one who isn't even here, one that used people for his own gain."

"You're saying Alice is responsible?" John was baffled at Lestrade's theory. "But the man was drugged; he couldn't've been able to do all this."

"He is right, Detective Inspector, Alice isn't responsible," Sherlock agreed with John. It didn't deter Lestrade. Lestrade pointed at them, "Then how come he's the only one we can't find and instead we find bodies?"

"Lestrade, when I follow my lead, I'm sure it'll answer your questions," Sherlock gestured at Lestrade. Lestrade shook his head.

"We need more time," John pleaded with Lestrade.

"Time," Lestrade balked at them. "How long until another body turns up, how long until you solve the case that more die?"

"You have to trust us, Detective Inspector," Sherlock pleaded. "If this was a murderer at work then why aren't their deaths similar, Detective Inspector? Wallace was bludgeoned to death. Lenny was hung. And Russel had his throat slit. There was no signature between any of them. If it was then they should've died similarly. Detective Inspector, I believe someone is intentionally targeting these men and they're using them to get to Alice."

"What does Alice know, Sherlock?" Lestrade gestured at him. "What does a man who was drugged out of his mind know?"

"Of course," Sherlock's light blue eyes lit up. It finally came to him. It came to him in the form of a wave of information. Everything was making sense now. Everything that had been fragmented had come together in unity. Sherlock should've caught on, but he never did, all this time he thought he didn't have all the pieces when in reality he did. How else would it make sense?

Alice, a former policeman, was friends with Frank Colton. Alice was paid to tell the Hilton Associate where Frank would be. Alice believed that Frank was dead. Frank could've very well been dead. A former journalists, he would've known what to use to his advantage. Suppose the Hilton Associate did send some unruly men to take care of Frank, but then, there was no body or any indication that Frank died. All Alice knew was Frank's former flat was ransacked and Frank was not heard from again. What if Frank wasn't quite dead as Alice thought?

In Sherlock's mind, a conversation took place between his inner mind and the prime suspect, Frank Colton.

Frank Colton wore a simple brown vest over a white collared shirt with black slacks and loafers, simple clothing for a man who wrote columns for a living. His graying hair was combed with gel and his eyes sunken from years working in a dim room. His skin showed his age and he had fine lines. A bird nose and grey eyes, Frank Colton was a sight to see for a dead man, or purported dead man.

"Sherlock Holmes, famed detective of London," Frank smiled at Sherlock as they appeared at the flat with the fireplace lit. "My, my, you are truly an interesting sight to see."

"You're targeting Alice, why?" Sherlock pointed at him. Frank clasped his hands together as he paced around the room laughing. When he got near the fireplace he stopped and turned around to face Sherlock.

"Oh, my dear boy, you don't quite understand do you?" Frank wagged his finger at Sherlock as Sherlock's eyes followed him. "I'm not targeting Alice over a little _pathetic_ bribe."

"Then what are you exactly doing?" Sherlock demanded as Frank's grey eyes met with his blue eyes. Frank chuckled as he shook his head. It was like Sherlock told him a jolly good joke and he took it as such. Sherlock didn't quite share the same reaction.

Frank wiped his eyes with his sleeve as he managed to stop laughing to converse with Sherlock. Frank said to Sherlock, "I'm merely wanted to expose him for what he is. A corrupt official who abused his power and he's still the man he was then."

"You're not dead, are you?" Sherlock challenged. Frank burst out laughing and held his gut as he gave a hearty laugh that emitted around the flat. When he stopped he looked straight at Sherlock.

He said, "We have two very different definitions of death, Sherlock. I trust I know what yours is. Mine is simply this: you're not dead _unless_ you think you are."

"Tell me," Sherlock snarled. Frank wagged a finger at him. He smiled at Sherlock.

"Suppose it was good of me to have my little messenger give that landlady of yours that message for John," Frank waved his hand as he twirled around the room. "You would've made it more complicated than you should. But then again, you not making it complicated would be a very poor judgement on you. I merely spoke to John through my message. I might've peppered in a few threats, but that was just because I'm told that threats are the only way to get someone's attention these days. I wanted to comfort John, is all, telling him that what he saw was not his mere imagination and that it'd be normal for you, a man of such reason, to consider it false."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock furrowed his brow. He then realized that John hadn't told him what the note actually said. In the beginning of the case, John claimed he seen a peculiar raven. Sherlock didn't seem to give it much thought. John did see a raven. The raven was real. And Sherlock never considered it until now.

"Oh yes, you see Mr. Holmes, ravens are nature's own enigma. Beautiful birds, with black plumage peppered with color, a sheen in their dark beaks. And their place in history is set in stone for years to come thanks in part by the likes of Poe. I suppose you, a man of knowledge, would know what a raven signifies when it appears before specific people, yes?" Frank looked at him, expecting a quick answer.

Sherlock gave him his answer, "They're messengers."

"Indeed, and do you know what message they bring?" Frank waved his hand.

Sherlock's eyes widened. Frank nodded; seemingly he knew what Sherlock was thinking or about to say. He smiled as Sherlock tilted his head at him.

"Oh yes, Sherlock, I may be "slightly" dead. But I'm still alive enough to tear apart the man who killed me," Frank's smile faded from his face and in its place was a scowl. "I do plan to take him, Mr. Holmes. You cannot stop me."

"Is killing him going to satiate your lust for vengeance?" Sherlock bellowed at him. Frank rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Oh god, he gave you that sob story, didn't he?" he muttered under his breath. "And I'm sure you'd like to know the truth?"

Sherlock tilted his head. He never encountered anything that gave suggestion that Alice was lying. Or he did and wasn't paying any attention. Alice's body language gave clues but they didn't set off any red flags.

"Did you know his missus never liked him?" Frank lit up a cigarette. "Well, I suppose I'm mistaken. Him going off every night and not calling would make someone's opinion change, I reckon. I guess it never came up how dear mummy had to hide the fact she had to make a difficult choice regarding an unexpected event happening. Oh, I guess he never told you that he beat the everlasting shite out of her lover when he found out, almost wanted to do the same to her if not for her intuition to flee to me. Her lover of course happened to been the chairman for Hilton Associate. So, what does a man do to save grace?"

"He told them where you'd be?" Sherlock watched as smoke wafted through the room as Frank cackled. Frank reached for the cigarette tray and tapped on the cigarette, releasing the built up ash inside. As he stuck the cigarette back into his mouth, Frank gave a sly look to Sherlock.

"Oh no, see, the chairman merely did what any opportunist would. He blackmailed our dear Alice. Alice did what the little chairman told him to do. Or else, the chairman would tell everyone that Alice was taking blood money. That insurance scam was never going to work and that is why narcotics were the main export. A little cocaine never hurt you, did it, Mr. Holmes?" Frank rubbed his chin. "Perhaps you'd be a man who prefers the taste of opium in a pipe; you seem a man who takes to a vice _very_ aggressively."

"Why go after you?" Sherlock inquired. He smelt the smoke as Frank walked over to him. Frank tilted his head as his cigarette bobbled up and down, ash spilling onto the floor.

"Oh, the usual," Frank said lusterless. "He only tried to kill me to keep my mouth shut about the drugs oh and I suppose he was still mad about me sheltering his wife for a while. Galahad had a nasty habit, Mr. Holmes. Praise He that it ended the moment Hilton was busted and the trades were thrown out and Alice got his badge cracked and his honor destroyed."

"Why kill those men? Why not just go after Alice?" Sherlock gestured. He was scorned by Frank.

Frank shook his head as he dropped the cigarette onto the floor and stepped on it. He glanced up to Sherlock, "You of all men ought to know _nothing_ is ever simple. I merely took an opportunity and I seized upon it. Those men I used were cowering about the sins _they_ committed. Oh yes, even that fool Lenny had a sin that _I_ couldn't abide. Did you know what he did, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock bit down on his lips. "What did he do?" Sherlock attempted to follow the cues Frank set for him.

Frank indulged him. "Oh, he was an intellectual individual, but one whose impulse control was hardly sophisticated. Oh, yes, one day in sometime 1998 or 1999—I doubt you know the case, you were very much busy with your own—a young woman was in the restroom of Cheshire University. When they found her, it was an _abhorrent_ sight. She claimed that a janitor locked her in and _done_ things to her with a mop handle. They never found the culprit. But _I_ did and I lord it over his head. Did you know what he said to me when I brought it up; he told me she should've been fortunate that he didn't make it permanent. Very rude and cruel, I know, but that's why _I_ used him. He may not have felt guilt for his actions but I _know_ what would make him my little raven. I merely reminded him of the various incidents he committed in the past. A pity about little Amelia, I'm sure her father, a violent robber, would've like to share a cell with him."

"Wallace?" Sherlock watched as Frank lit up another cigarette.

Frank told him. "Oh, yes, Wallace. You see, Wallace was an interesting individual. He was divorced many times but not for the same reasons as you'd imagine. It wasn't money or lack of attention his exes were pissed about. No, he was a _fiend_. He hid it behind that face of his. Never a wife tell anyone what her dead husband does to her when no one's looking or else her dead husband make sure she's never seen or heard from again. Oh yes, I did take him as a raven too, but he was _easy_ to lord over and I couldn't pass up a chance to use him to send forth Alice."

"Russel?" Frank heard Sherlock.

Frank shook his head. "Russel was a man who knew nothing but how to break the law. He was also a gambler and got into it with the sharks. I merely chose him for convenience. A well-known criminal could easily get me what I needed and unlike the other two, he wouldn't _dare_ make trouble. Unfortunately, he decided he had enough. He did as I asked and yet he tried to tell me that it's enough. It's never enough, Mr. Holmes, it can _never_ be enough."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Sherlock felt the smoke on his face as Frank exhaled it. Frank took the cigarette out of his mouth and tapped it with his middle finger over the carpet. Frank look displeased with Sherlock, as if he expected Sherlock to already know. He decided to tell him anyway.

"Even dead men like _me_ have standards," Frank shook his head. "Why would I lie to a man who'd figure out the truth regardless?"

"Why would a dead man come to me?" Sherlock asked. Frank smiled at him; it was childish and looked as if he rather enjoyed driving Sherlock mad with his answers.

"How do you know you're not talking to a dead man and not just your little subconscious representation?" Frank asked back. "You bore me, Mr. Holmes, I expected _more_ from you. Giving Alice's journal to your Inspector, such novice mistake, I'm gravely disappointed in you. But _then_ I realized that even the most intellectual man can't know them all. However, it is unfortunate that you haven't figured it out. I told you _everything_ you needed to know. And yet you assert that it's not the whole truth when it is. You think I'm just throwing together a story just so you can use it as basis for your final deduction. Oh no, I merely _wanted_ to help."

"Are you real?" Sherlock's heart was beating rapidly. Frank tilted his head at him. His smile turned from childish to fiendish.

"I told you what you needed to know. So now, it's time for me to ask of you. I'm growing wearily of his presence. He will be _mine_ and there is nothing _you_ can do about it," he pointed at Sherlock. "And I'll make it interesting. If you don't let me take _him_ , then I'll just have to take _someone_ else. You can guess who _that_ will be."

"John," Sherlock whispered. Frank patted him on the shoulder, as if congratulating him.

Frank nodded. "Take from me; I'll gladly take from you. It's a lesson I learned from a dear old friend," he said. "Do give my regards to Alice when you catch up to him. I'd do it myself, but I got plenty to do before I make my debut."

"You're not real," Sherlock shook his head. He believed that he was going into a psychosis brought on by his ever growing desire to solve the case. He was witnessing Frank from the photograph and he was hearing all this because his mind was parsing information from previous experiences. None of this was happening and he was there with John outside of London Museum pleading with Lestrade.

"Oh Sherlock, how _foolish_ can you be?" he heard Frank as he went toward the door. Sherlock turned around to face him as he had a hand around the door knob.

Sherlock pointed at him, "You're not dead."

"As I said, our definitions are different from each other," Frank disappeared through the doorway. Sherlock ran toward the door to follow him only to see Lestrade and John looking at him.

He was back in reality. Frank was gone. He was gone. Where he went, Sherlock didn't know. He didn't know what to believe. All he knew what that Frank was happy in telling him all sorts of things the three victims did and what Alice done. But whether this was true or not, Sherlock wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything now. It reminded him of how Morarity twisted him around, threatening his loved ones, threatening those around him. All for a good show, so claimed Morarity once before in another case just before the inevitable happened.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John snapped his fingers. Sherlock blinked several times before realizing.

"I-I'm fine," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat and told Lestrade. "Detective Inspector, I need another favor."

"What favor are you asking now?" Lestrade asked.

"I suspect Lenny and Wallace had ulterior motives for their contribution," Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "I need files from their personal lives. I believe they might've been altered or scrubbed. But check for any assaults that happened in Cheshire University around 1998 or 1999 and see if Lenny was a suspect or not. Check if any of Wallace's exes had complaints lodged against him."

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John turned to Sherlock, worryingly.

Sherlock only said, "A dead man's game, John."


	20. Mind and Matter

Lestrade heard all sorts of things over the years. Some by the criminals he caught. Some by those he dealt with on the job. And then there were things he heard from Sherlock. Sherlock had always a look about him and often or not when he is stuck on something he won't budge until he solves it. Lestrade heard all.

Here he was, listening to Sherlock frantically telling him that something was amiss and that he had to help. Now, Lestrade can tell all sorts of stories about Sherlock, some he witnessed firsthand, some he heard from others, but this was a new concept. Sherlock believed that something or someone was involved; it was simple enough, until he got into the part where he believed someone was using a dead man's visage for some nefarious purpose. True Lestrade had dealt with peculiar cases brought to him and shared with Sherlock, but ones like this one were not his cup of tea at all. Sociopaths with cell phones and a beef with the government was one thing, a dead man being used to further some unknown cause was another.

"Sherlock, I might've known you for a couple of years now and I have listened to your fevered thoughts and frantic talks, but this is something I can't grasp," Lestrade shook his head at him. Sherlock gritted his teeth and stared at Lestrade, expecting him to completely understand what he was being told.

"That's why I _need_ to get to Alice, Detective Inspector, because _he's_ the missing link," Sherlock said to him. "He was a police officer. His list of enemies rivals yours!"

"Now that you mention it, suppose it's someone Alice knows. If it's a criminal mastermind, then it'd explain Russel's involvement," Lestrade pondered.

"If not a criminal, then who else could've had reasons to go after Alice?" John wondered.

Sherlock mulled it over. His mind still fragile from Frank's incursion, he wasn't sure if he ought to trust what Frank said. Yet, he couldn't trust himself at this vulnerable point. His intricate mind stammered while it tried to reason what it had witnessed. He pooled too many resources from previous experience and it muddled with his current case. Thus, there was a great chance that Sherlock was being misled by his own mind. Driven to solve this case, his mind took what it knew and threw it over the skin of Frank. And it infuriated Sherlock to no end.

His mind snapped when he heard his name. Sherlock shook his head. "I'm hoping his journal and the bills will help fill in the blanks," he stammered. He coughed as he recouped. "Detective Inspector, please trust me."

"Why does it have to be the crazy ones," Lestrade sighed as he rubbed the back of his head. He nodded. "Fine, then. Go follow your lead. But damn it, Sherlock, don't make me regret it."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Sherlock rushed past him and hurried down the steps toward the curbside. John coughed as he asked Lestrade, "Drop me off at Oxford?"

Sherlock was gone by the time they headed down the steps. Already taking a taxi toward the residence of Helen's mother, Sherlock's mind stirred with thoughts. He wanted to know what Alice knew and who would be responsible for all that happened. In some parts of his mind, he began to wonder if Frank was really dead.

While Sherlock could have someone phone in a favor and ask around about the whereabouts of Frank's body. He didn't have enough time to deal with having to explain everything multiple times. Also, there was a good chance none of them would know where it was or if it was even still in one piece. Corruption ran deep when it came to the likes of insurance fraud and no doubt Hilton Association would gladly make the effort to hide their skeletons.

There was no way to check to see if Frank will still alive, anyhow. If he was as smart as Alice said he was, then no doubt if he survived his row with the men sent to deal with him, he'd change his name and go into hiding. And if luck wasn't on Sherlock's side, then he would've died in obscurity without so much anyone knowing who he really was.

It occurred to Sherlock that he never considered what he considered a mere mental representation of Frank, said to him. If Alice was responsible for his death, then he'd have to know what became of the body and who would know what happened. Alice would've been helped to ensure that the murder would not be tied back to him. So, what if someone familiar with Alice was using his guilt to extort?

Sherlock settled in the seat. He couldn't lie, though he could on a drop of a dime, he couldn't lie what he felt. He felt for the first time in a long time, fear. Fear was what he felt when he shared the same space with the mental representation of Frank. He smelt the cigarette smoke wafting through the air. He felt Frank touching his shoulder. It was if Frank was actually there, talking to Sherlock.

Sherlock, of course, tried to rationalize it. He knew what cigarette smoke smelt like, because of his own habit. He didn't know what Frank sounded like, only that he would've shared the same accent as Alice. There were cases similar to what Frank hinted about the three dead men. Yet, it gnawed on his mind regardless.

Morarity would gladly spell out everything for Sherlock, even if Sherlock didn't require it. He would gladly show Sherlock what he used to do it and how he did it. It was his desire to provoke and intimidate Sherlock, trying desperately to break Sherlock. It almost worked too. But Sherlock prevailed and Morarity was dead. Sherlock was sure of it.

His mind heard a voice. A voice foreign to it and Sherlock echoed in his head. "Are you sure death is final?" the voice echoed.


	21. Alice is Back (in Blue)

The residence of Margret Thatcher was like its owner. It was a small campy house in the countryside, built sometime in the early parts of the '50s during the reconstruction period. Only two stories but compact enough that from looking around it looked like a wide lunchbox. The roof was recently repaired from the damages caused by last winter and so switched from the old fashioned green colored shingles to the rolled out and stapled brown with box pattern replacement. The walls around were painted recently as well, with expensive weather and life proof white paint. There was the decorative crisscross walls attached, brimming with flowers for the season. With trimmed bushes, cobbled stone pathways, and the usual motifs associated with older women, it was a home that could've very well been depicted in an old broadcast that even Sherlock and Mycroft's mother would've watched.

Sherlock stepped over the cobbled stone pathway toward the door and glanced around. He was half expecting his mother to step out of the doorway with knitted sweaters when he stepped up the steps and headed toward the door. He gently knocked on the door and waited. Shuffling toward the door and opening it, Margret poked her head out with her reading glasses bobbing up and down her face. "Yes," she looked at him. He gave a nod. He responded with, "Mrs. Thatcher?"

"Ms. Thatcher. My dear Theo died thirty years ago," she corrected him. She blinked as she asked him, "Are you Nancy's boy?"

"No, ma'am, I am Sherlock Holmes. I was told by your daughter you took a man in," Sherlock introduced himself.

Margret tilted her head. She tilted back and smiled.

"Oh! He said you might come by!" she gleefully said to him.

Sherlock was confused. He responded with, "What do you mean?"

"He was a charming man. He even helped me fix the thimble on my sewing machine," Margret nodded at him.

"Is he here?" Sherlock gestured. "I need to speak with him."

"Ah, well I'm afraid he had to leave. He was very busy indeed," Margret smiled.

Sherlock could tell by the look in her face. She must've been diagnosed recently.

"Ms. Thatcher, I took the liberty of adding the porcini mushrooms," called a voice from the kitchen, a man's.

Margret turned her head from Sherlock to call into the kitchen, "And did you add the spices?"

"Of course!" the voice in the kitchen answered.

It left Sherlock visibly confused. "Ma'am, who's in there with you?" he asked her.

"Why, Alice, of course," Margret gleamed.

Sherlock blinked. It confused him. And he hated it.

"Ma'am, may I speak with Alice?" he asked.

She looked at him funny.

"May I ask what it's about, sir?" she asked back.

Sherlock responded with, "It's an important matter, ma'am."

"Er, well, I'm not sure. Who are you again?" Margret stared at him confusingly.

Sherlock told her again. "I am Sherlock Holmes, ma'am," he said.

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, you're the detective!" she smiled. She nodded profusely.

"Oh, please come in and join us," she opened the door for him.

It smelt of all sorts of foods. Sherlock could distinctly smell the porcini mushrooms being cooked. He also smelt the lamb in the skillet with the peppers. While he was being lead, Sherlock glanced around the home the décor spoke a thousand words about the motifs of an elderly woman. Old knickknacks lined the glass shelves, family portraits, mass produced paintings of farmland and fruit baskets. The wallpaper's base color was beige with the design of a row of red roses. Even Sherlock's mother would call it old fashion.

Margret led him through the dining room where there was a large old mahogany table with six accompanying chairs. Above it was a handcrafted chandelier with roses intertwining with a transparent background for the base glass. The eight limbs with bulbs faintly seen through the bases were blown glass roses colored red from the melting process. When the chandelier lit up it gave the room a faint red hue.

"Oh, Alice, darling, we have a guest," Margret hurried into the kitchen. Sherlock followed closely behind. He heard in return, "Oh, fantastic, do they like porcini mushrooms?"

"I'm sure he does. He's Sherlock Holmes!" Margret gleamed as she stepped near the oven while Alice stirred the contents of the skillet. Alice lowered the spoon when he heard the name. "Sherlock Holmes?" he blinked. He turned to Margret. "What do you mean?"

Margret pointed at Sherlock who stood there with a peculiar look on his face. Alice moved away from the oven and allowed Margret to take over. He slowly turned around and they both stared at each other.

"Alice, it's me," Sherlock pointed at himself. "Don't you recognize me?"

"Of course I know who you are. You're that git that gets into trouble," Alice scorned.

Sherlock couldn't believe it. A far cry from when he first met him, Alice wasn't afraid. He didn't quiver with fright. He didn't look behind and glance about as if someone were watching him. And he certainly wasn't talking about the raven. Either the drugs wore off or Sherlock was having an episode himself.

"Alice, we were looking for you," Sherlock told him. "We thought you were in trouble."

"Hmph! You get old and they think you're a walking hazard," Alice scoffed. "Back in my day, you had only your wits about you. Age was just a number they assign you so they don't have to deal with the paperwork."

It was peculiar. Alice was assertive, strong willed. Like a police officer. He was so different that Sherlock had to double check to make sure it was even the right Alice. It was.

"Alice, do you remember me?" Sherlock gestured. "You came to my flat two days ago."

"I'd never go to a half-wit who thinks he's above the law," Alice spat. "I'd turn you in if I could!"

Margret turned her head. "Alice, who's that?" she asked.

"Just a half-wit," Alice waved his hand.

"Oh, would you like to stay for lunch?" Margret smiled at Sherlock. "We're having porcini mushrooms and some haggis."

"Alice, how could you not remember?" Sherlock stood there blankly. "You asked me to solve a case."

Alice stared at him. His face was different. His fine lines gave the impression he had a permanent scowl on his face. Hardly any different than a retired police officer if one thought about how the profession would cause someone to age quickly than they would normally. And it intrigued Sherlock how Alice couldn't remember him. His body language told him that Alice scarce knew him other than what he probably read in the newspaper. Yet, Sherlock knew for a fact that Alice had come to him in distress. Something was wrong and Sherlock knew it for a fact.

He remembered the drugs and how they could've influenced Alice. It had been two days since he went missing and likely the drugs had worn off or their effects diminished enough for Alice to become coherent. It was interesting to note that from the look of things, Alice was normal as one could say. Sherlock concluded the side effects of the drugs were responsible.

"I hadn't been on the force for over 20 years," Alice pointed at him. "Even then we'd never turn over cases to a lunatic with high cheeks."

"I do also take cases that aren't police related," Sherlock reminded him. "I am a detective."

"A detective who's above the law," Alice snorted.

Sherlock sighed, "I believe your life is in danger."

"Porcini isn't that bad for the heart," they heard Margret as she got plates out.

Alice shook his head. "Any policeman can tell you his life is in danger," he responded to Sherlock.

Sherlock tilted his head, "Does the name Frank Colton mean anything to you?"

Sherlock decided that if Alice was not going to be cooperative that he was going to instill some sort of fear in him. While he wouldn't have done it under normal circumstances, Sherlock was strapped for time, with three bodies in Oxford's freezer, there wasn't much in a way of doing things he'd normally do.

Alice's face changed from a scowl to a peculiar look. He stared at Sherlock intently. "Where'd you hear that name?" he asked.

Sherlock replied, "We think he's vowed for vengeance against you."

"Impossible," Alice shook his head.

Sherlock waited for Alice to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. Instead, he heard something else. "I hadn't heard from him in years," Alice scorned.

Ah and therein the problem lies. A terrible lie, Alice, even the low-level criminals Sherlock and John hunted for had better lies than you.

"Then, why are you specifically being targeted?" Sherlock gestured. "People are dying because of it."

"I was a police officer. It doesn't take a detective to know that a police officer is expectant to get threats," Alice retorted with.

"Who would target you then?" Sherlock crossed his arms at him. "Who'd want you dead the most?"

"Why are you so intent?" Alice stared at him. "Why are you bothering me?"

"Three men died, Alice. All because they're linked to _you_ and you are the target in mind. Why would someone go through the trouble?" Sherlock dropped his gentleman act. Alice wasn't winning points with him. He admitted that he was expecting the same frightened Alice he met two days ago. He never thought Alice would become this. Drugs or not, Sherlock wasn't sure if this was his actual personality or if it was the effects of Withdrawal Syndrome.

"How am I supposed to know who wants vengeance against me," Alice waved his hand. "Most of them died of old age or bad luck."

"Just like Frank, Alice?" Sherlock raised his brow. "Did he suffer bad luck?"

"And what just are you instigating?" Alice gave him a stern look at him.

Sherlock uncrossed his arms as he leaned in. "You told me you set him up. Said Hilton Associates wanted you to tell them where he was going to be so they'd take care of him. He was going to expose the scam they were setting up," he said. "You told me this, Alice."

"I told you nothing," Alice shook his head. "And I certainly don't remember you."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I have proof, Alice. At my flat, you will see that you did in fact come to me," he slowly said.

"And how do I know you're telling the truth?" Alice tilted his head.

Sherlock responded with, "I only tell lies to people who annoy me. But for you, I'll make an exception."


	22. Lestrade Got a Gun

"Looks like a bowie knife, the initial cut had a curve," John showed Molly as they studied Russel's body. His eyes were frozen in place; it looked as if he was looking at his killer. His mouth was frozen open, he tried to scream but nothing came out as the bowie knife had cut through the vocal cords. And by doing so, it resulted in a quick death. His wrists and ankles were purple, but only on the front, on the bottom were splinters. So it was believed Russel was bound to a chair just before he died.

It perturbed both Molly and John the lack of blood on his clothes. With the cut jugular and artery, it was expected to be soaked in blood. Yet, his clothes were pristine if not pressed. It led John to suspect the killer changed his clothes before he dumped the body. As for why, John wasn't sure. Though it wouldn't be the first time he came across something as peculiar as this, after all, majority of the cases he and Sherlock took up over the years always had something peculiar about them.

Like the last two bodies, Russel's body had the infamous Raven tattoo. At first, neither Molly nor John found it at first because his body was covered in deep tissue scars and tattoos. Given that there was a lax dress code for Sinclair Riverside, no doubt that he wore long sleeve clothing to avoid anyone from seeing them. As for the raven tattoo, it was found on the chest area, not on the shoulder like Wallace and Lenny's tattoos. There was permanent damage in the areas where the tattoo was made, the killer likely stabbing him with the needle as he tattooed the raven.

"What does it mean the tattoo?" Molly wondered as she snapped a photograph of the raven tattoo. John chewed on his lips as he thought about that. It was definitely the killer's calling card. He'd kidnap his victims, tattoo them with it, and set them free for only a short time until he returns to kill them, either to silence them or he was slowly becoming more and more dangerous as the day goes by. With what John knew of Alice and what Sherlock told him, it was likely to silence them, because in the killer's mind that they didn't want Alice to find out and flee. But of course this was all speculation and with Sherlock gone to head to a lead, John had to work with it.

His mind trailed to the raven tattoo and it remembered the peculiar London Crow. Crows and ravens were interchangeable despite claims; also, it made sense as John thought about it more. London Crow was the messenger of death and disparity to those it visits, but what if it meant something else, something more human nature. John came to the conclusion that London Crow did exist and it was plural, messengers, these men were messengers for the killer. John then remembered the peculiar raven that he swore he saw. It alone made the hair on his neck stand up. He then remembered what was below the raven when it first appeared at 221B Baker Street. A man was walking past, taking a sharp turn around the corner, he had his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head held low, what little John saw he had a pale face. That was the messenger who came by the flat to give Mrs. Hudson the note that was why she didn't recognize Frank or Alice. It was a different person entirely and who it was, John had no way of knowing. Given the trend, likely, it would've been too late for him anyway. Where his body would end up, time can only tell.

"They were his messengers," John's voice faltered.

"What do you mean, John?" Molly tilted her head as she lowered the camera.

John said, "The killer is using people to do his dirty work _and_ killing them off when they're no longer useful."

"Is it Morarity?" Molly winced.

John shook his head. He replied with, "No, this wouldn't be his style."

"Why is he doing all this?" Molly questioned. "Why go through the trouble?"

"Alice. Alice knows what happened and the killer wants him," John quickly said. "It has to be someone Alice knows."

He stopped. He looked at Molly and asked, "May I use your computer?"

"Um, sure," Molly gestured with her elbow.

John sat down at the desk and typed in Frank Colton's name. While John normally agreed it wasn't something he'd do, it was better than nothing. He refined the search results by typing in where Frank was born, Galahad, and it narrowed until he got to a barrage of articles. Several were in Gaelic while others were in English and John quickly read the English ones. It appeared that Frank Colton went missing on October 31st 1980. His flat on Welsh & Windsor Ave. was ransacked and believed he was kidnapped. Unfortunately, there weren't any leads and his ailing mother was unable to help with investigators. She died two months later after the initial investigations from the flu. In 1990, the police received a lead that a ragged man was seen on the outskirts of town, when they went they found neither trace of the man nor anything more. In 1996, the case was closed and shelved. Frank Colton was deemed dead and with no next of kin, his belongings were liquidated and his flat cleared out. With his death certificate staring at John, John wasn't sure what to say about it.

He nearly jumped when he heard Molly next to him.

"I'm done with the autopsy," she said. "Like you told me, he died within seconds. But if he didn't bleed out in the dumpster, where was he?"

"London's busy, how he'd get a body in a bin without anyone seeing him?" John wondered too. He sighed. "Well, that's for Sherlock to find out, then."

"So, what do you think?" Molly asked. "Why do you think he's after Alice?"

"Alice had to known something he didn't want getting out," John theorized. "It only made sense he made sure there were people to keep him quiet, via tormenting and drugs."

"What would he have known?" Molly wondered. "You said he was a police officer. So, could've been a criminal?"

John mulled over that idea. Alice never said who else he helped disparage for the sake of the insurance fraud. Maybe there was someone else who Alice never mentioned that was responsible. If what Sherlock relayed what Russel's brother said was true, there had to been someone who would come to mind. But then, somewhere in his mind, a thought came up. He didn't know why it appeared, it just did. It proclaimed that Alice knows who it is. He had said who to Sherlock when they first met.

John tried to shake that thought but it stuck with him. He swore he heard someone in his head. Not his inner voice, not a voice he knows, it was a voice that he never heard in his life. " _Always_ the rational one, aren't you?" it said.

"John, are you okay?" Molly looked at him funny. He blinked several times before he looked at her.

"Right, um, suppose Alice knows and was too afraid of saying it," John quickly said as he stood up.

Molly nodded. "So, what are you going to do?" she asked.

John wondered that too. He sighed. "I honestly don't know. Until Lestrade translates the copies, I don't really know," he admits.

"What about Sherlock had he a thought?" Molly gestured.

John shook his head.

"There has to be a method to this madness," Molly crossed her arms. "You'd think it'd be obvious with the raven tattoos."

"Some cases have their moments," John reminded her.

Then, his cell phone went off. He grabbed it out of his pocket, expecting it to be from Sherlock. Instead, it was Donovan.

It read: John, Lestrade shot. At the hospital. Come quickly. Can't reach Sherlock.

John flinched. Molly glanced at the screen and stared at him worryingly.

"Oh my god, what happened?" she cringed.

"I don't know. I'm going to the hospital. If anything happens, you call me or the others, hear?" John grabbed for his coat.

Molly nodded, "Right, stay safe out there."

"Right, you too," John disappeared through the double doors and out of Oxford toward the curbside. As he hailed a cab he noticed a raven above the street sign. It quietly perched there and slowly turned its head toward John. John reasoned it was just his nerves. He hadn't been able to rest since Sherlock took up the case. Reasonably, his mind had been harrowed by thoughts and ideas that certainly can't be true. With his nerves, he was just seeing things.

The cab pulled up and John entered. He directed the cabby to the hospital where Lestrade was admitted and was met with Donovan and Anderson who had worried looks on their faces.

"What happened?" John looked at them.

"We got a burglary call at a morgue. He said we'd take it because with all that's happened we still need to be on our toes," Anderson responded.

Donovan nodded, "He got there before any of us. By the time we reached him, he was huddled in a corner."

"Said he was jumped by a man and they struggled. He said he shot the man and the man shot him. We didn't find any trace and the only weapon we recovered was Lestrade's and it was by the exit door," Anderson held his head low.

"Did he say what the shooter looked like?" John gestured.

He was given looks by Donovan and Anderson.

Donovan said, "He swore it was a man dressed _in_ a plague doctor."

"Said he wasn't fazed by the gunshot and shot him back," Anderson nodded.

John looked at them both. They weren't lying, it showed on their faces.

"How bad is it?" John looked at them.

"He's in surgery right now," responded the two.

John grimaced, "Anything more?"

"When we got there, it looked like the man took something from Lestrade's coat," Donovan replied. "We don't know what it was."

"Those were the copies I wrote," John flinched.

Anderson said, "We were hoping to get Sherlock here, but neither of us had been able to get a hold of him. We thought you could."

"Yeah, I'll give it a go," John brought out his cell phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock.

He waited. He gave it ten minutes. In those ten minutes, no reply. The message gone through, it looked like his phone received it. He just didn't answer.

John frowned. "I'm sure he's coming," he reasoned.

"What's going on, John?" Anderson asked him. "Ever since Sherlock took that case it's all _been_ a madhouse."

"He's right, what _are_ we supposed to do?" Donovan gestured. "Every one of London's finest is scouring the streets for a man dressed like a plague doctor."

"Look, for now, we'll wait for him to get out of surgery," John sat at the reception area.

Donovan and Anderson sat at their spots and the trio tried to pass the time.

While he waited, John texted Mary, she was about to call him when he hadn't texted her an hour ago. She was shocked when he revealed what happened to Lestrade and wanted to know who it might've been. John didn't know how to respond but to say that it might've just been an opportunist who was robbing a home that was surprised by Lestrade. Mary told him to be careful and John assured her. Afterward he attempted to contact Sherlock again.

No new messages from him nor was he inclined to read the ones John and the others sent. John wondered what he was doing that kept him busy that he wasn't aware of his phone going off. Yet, it could've been that Sherlock silenced his phone. For why he would do that, John had no clue.

He expected Sherlock to come through those doors yelling at the top of his lungs. He would shout at Donovan and Anderson combined about not doing their jobs, in an attempt to mask his fears. He would then speak with John about the stolen notes and the appearance of the suspect before rushing to attend Lestrade's surgery. Yet, Sherlock never came. Instead, it was Lestrade's wife who came through the doors.

Her eyes were irritated from the constant contact with the tissues as she walked through the reception area to speak with him and the other two. When she heard what they could say, she spoke with the receptionist who told her the same and she took her spot at one of the chairs. She was offered comfort and company by Donovan and Anderson, John grabbed a box of tissues for her to use. She thanked him and blew her nose.

"Who'd _shoot_ my George?" she whimpered as Anderson wrapped his arm around her as means to comfort her.

John and they couldn't answer that. Not because they were afraid of making her involved with the ongoing case, but also because truthfully they had nothing concrete.

They continued to wait, the sun had gone down, and Mary told John about the leftovers she left in the fridge for him. Even then, Sherlock had not turned up. John couldn't go out and look, it was too late in the night and Lestrade's surgery was scheduled to end soon. He had to remain at the hospital until he talked to Lestrade.

"What _is_ he doing?" Anderson asked John. "Doesn't he know?"

"If I had to bet, Sherlock's looking for the shooter," John suggested. "Even if they don't like each other much, Sherlock isn't going to stand around while the shooter's on the run."

"You'd think they find him now. A man in a plague doctor costume is hardly inconspicuous," Donovan shook her head.

"Maybe he took off his costume," Anderson suggested. "Could be a reason no one's found him yet."

"Doubt it, they would've found the costume," John pointed at him.

Donovan sighed and sat back in her seat. She crossed her legs as she tried to make sense of it. "Why would anyone rob a morgue?" she wondered.

Donovan heard Anderson. "All that comes to mind are the tools they use to prep the bodies. Those are worth money on the market, but I don't know how a plague doctor costume fits into it," he responded.

John looked at him, "What morgue was it?"

"Um, it was Edgar Allan Morgue on Annabelle Street," Anderson relayed.

"Who phoned it in?" John continued.

Anderson responded, "It was an anonymous tip."

"It _was_ an anonymous tip?" John's alarms went off in his head. A trap, it was a trap. "Oh god, it was a trap."

"What does it mean?" John heard Lestrade's wife.

John responded with a look of terror in his eyes, "He _knew_ Lestrade had the copies."


	23. Is It Ever Simple?

After lunch with Margret, Alice and Sherlock thanked her and headed their way out to the curb. Alice looked at him with a look and Sherlock looked back. "I'll admit this. You do have a good head about you. Rough around the edges, yet keen, not many with that quality," Alice said. "I read you. You didn't back down even when I accused you. You held your ground. I'm most impressed. Most people will change their tune to fit their needs."

"Should I take it as a compliment?" Sherlock blinked as he held out his hand and called out for a cab.

Alice gave a dry chuckle. "Not really, I met few like you," he said.

"And what happened to them?" Sherlock inquired. He was told, "Same as usual, ended up dead or imprisoned."

"So you think the same will happen to me?" Sherlock responded.

Alice shook his head. He said, "I believe you'll end up in an asylum."

"And why's that?" Sherlock tilted his head. He heard, "You're too crazy for even the _loonies_ back at the institute to handle."

Sherlock sighed, "Says the man who likes his coffee black with one teaspoon of kosher salt. Likes to add hot sauce to his bowls of soup, especially in cold weather, sometimes in the summer when you aren't willing to buy from the market. You like to keep your room at a steady temperature of 20 Celsius ( _68 Fahrenhei_ t) sometimes more when the winter's been bad. In the summer you keep it like an ice box unless the AC isn't working, then you have a fan by your face every night. Oh, _and_ you like to watch the Beebs once a while."

Alice's face was golden. It was like watching a serious man, so serious even the drill sergeants would be asking him to tone it down, slowly turn into a face mixed with curiosity and agitation. He only said in response, "Touché."

"It's a skill, Mr. Walker," Sherlock smiled. Alice of course didn't, but then again, Sherlock wasn't interested in small talk.

"And for your information, I don't tune to the Beebs once a while. I only tune in when rugby's on," Alice sniffed.

Sherlock nodded, "Of course, Mr. Walker."

Alice sighed and turned his head a certain way, popping his neck a little as he decided to finally begin what had interested him most. Why couldn't he remember anything and why was his life in danger. Why did he go to Sherlock if he found people like him an abhorrent fool who thinks he can do better than organized police?

"You claim I went to you," Alice began. "Yet, I don't remember."

"Do you remember what you were prescribed while in Sinclair Riverside?" Sherlock asked him just as a cab came up to the curb. As they entered and shut the door, Alice pondered. As he did, Sherlock told the cabby where to go from there.

Alice stared hard and long at his worn loafers before he answered. "Just the usual, the kind for depression," he said. Sherlock nodded as he then asked Alice, "Do you remember when it changed?"

"Why's this important?" Alice asked.

Sherlock responded, "You might've been drugged."

"Stating the obvious, Mr. Holmes," Alice shook his head as the cab pulled away from the curb. "I've been in an institute!"

"Do you remember the day where you had a stomachache and you were the only one left as the others went on a field trip?" Sherlock asked. "Do you remember anything strange?"

Alice stopped. His mind was hazy at best but he slightly remembered a few things here and there. He of course remembered that he was on a set of drugs for his depression. He remembered how he came to the institution, it was because the previous one was closing and patients were being transferred elsewhere that were best for them. While the rest were sent to medium-secure facilities, Alice was sent to Sinclair Riverside. Then, he remembered when he had dinner the night before he had that stomachache and how he complained his soup tasted like chalk. No one believed him, of course, but the nurse attending gave him another bowl.

"Well, I remember some tomato bisque for dinner," Alice said finally. "But other than that, I don't remember."

Sherlock stared. Of course, the simplest answers were always the answers no one ever got. Alice was drugged. Drugged with seemingly harmless tomato bisque that slowly went through his body and didn't come to a head until the stolen shipment, it'd pass through his system even before someone second guessed. Russel would've been the attending nurse; he would've been working then. Wallace got the drug and Russel put it in, no one would've checked the food, it was a trust system of course.

"Could you remember anything after?" Sherlock continued. "Do you remember going to work?"

"Not really," Alice shook his head. "Barely remembered getting out of bed that is as much I can say to you."

"Hm, did you eat anything recently?" Sherlock rubbed his eyes. "I was told you worked at a library before you disappeared."

"Actually, I do remember coffee," Alice mentioned. "They have free coffee for the staff at the library. Since I was considered one, I always grabbed a cup before I left."

"Right, anything particular about it, anything strange or off putting," Sherlock was formulating his theory.

Alice crossed his arms. "Last I remember, my cup was horrid, it had gritty and crunchy grinds in it. Bleh, someone didn't know how to use the filter properly or are terrible coffeemakers," he spat.

Sherlock smiled, "Mr. Walker, I believe I have your answer. You don't remember because someone was drugging you, intentionally."

"What do you mean?" Alice blinked.

"Mr. Walker, our dear friend has been involved from the very beginning," Sherlock glanced out of the door window. Russel didn't kill Wallace. Wallace was killed by the same person who's been after Alice. Russel used his costume to scare Alice while he drugged. Two different sets of costumes both plague doctors. They were picked specifically because of how a human's mind will interpret the appearance. A tall brooding fiendish creature hell bent, it was a most interesting ploy. Ravens were always known for their dark symbolism, so added in, you'd have a horror show. A horror show planned to the nines.

Then, it came to Sherlock. Alice was right; he'd never go to someone like Sherlock. With low opinions, he'd go to the police instead, but he didn't. He only went to Sherlock. He was the one who handed Sherlock the American bills. They never were able to find any more but what they found, so only one reason for all this came to mind: whoever it was sent Alice directly to Sherlock.

Sherlock was no stranger to something like this, of course. He came to expect it in his daily life. Someone, who has prowess, using puppets to do their bidding, and then when their puppets no longer served a purpose, they were killed. Alice was also a puppet, an instrument. How he was used, Sherlock couldn't tell. His usefulness was waning, however. It meant that sooner or later, whoever is behind all this will want him dead. Yet, Sherlock struck a roadblock. Why would they send Alice to him?

Why not kill him in the same fashion like the others?

Sherlock wondered about it.

Why not kill him then when he was under the influence of those drugs?

Simple, like Frank who had spoke to him in his mind once said; he wasn't going to kill Alice over the betrayal. He wanted to expose him for what he was, a corrupt official who abused his powers well until his eventual retirement and placement in mental hospitals. How the drugs fit in, Sherlock was stumped.

One hand said the drugs were used to loosen his lips and make his mind open to spilling. What better way to get a man to confess to his misdeed than to drug him silly and make him talk nonstop.

On another hand, it said that the drugs were to keep Alice somber. Keep him afraid and on the edge of his seat, the perfect setup to forcibly expose him. He'd have to tell all if he was being threatened by imaginary creatures that torment him day and night. It was the logical solution to any madman's equation.

The problem Sherlock had was, what was it?

"Who'd be after me after all these years?" Alice asked him. Sherlock glanced at him.

"What happened to Frank, Alice?" Sherlock in turn asked. "What really happened?"

"He disappeared," Alice shrugged. Sherlock didn't believe him. "Frank was going to expose an insurance fraud, wasn't he, that's why he "disappeared"." he said to Alice.

Alice sighed and shook his head. "I told him to stop. I tried to reason with him, I did. Yet he wouldn't listen. He was stepping on toes he shouldn't be stepping on," he mournfully said.

"And what did he say?" Sherlock continued.

Alice replied with, "Said he would be a rubbish journalist if he didn't expose the truth."

"Did HA do it, Alice, did they kill him?" Sherlock waited for an answer. It never came. Alice remained quiet for the remainder of the cab ride back to 221B Baker Street. Upon arrival to his flat, Sherlock paid the fee and led Alice through the threshold. Up the stairs into his flat, Alice was greeted by a sight. On the table was the box. Sherlock looked at his face and it told him. Alice didn't recognize the box at all.

"You may open it. It's been processed," Sherlock gestured. Alice went near the box and pried it open. He flinched as he saw photographs of him and Frank when they were younger. When he got to the journal, he flipped through the pages. He glimpsed toward Sherlock as he was coming toward him. "The photographs and the badge are mine, but the journal isn't," Alice proclaimed. "Where did you get these?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock tilted his head. He heard, "When I was first placed into a mental hospital, they went through my things. They were carless and a lot of them went missing and never turned up. I thought I was never going see my badge or the photographs again."

"What about the journal, some of those pages looked to be made around the time you were drugged," Sherlock blinked.

Alice pondered. He glanced at the journal again and flipped through its pages. "This isn't my handwriting," Alice shook his head. "It's someone else's."

"Can you translate it?" Sherlock asked. "Who wrote it?"

"Thought you knew everything," Alice stared at him.

Sherlock smiled, "Gaelic is out of date I'm told."

"Sadly it is, but Galahad tended to hold onto traditions when it can," Alice sighed as he began to translate the Gaelic pages. He stopped a couple of times before he resumed. As he did, he said, "Not very good Gaelic."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock tilted his head. He was shown the incorrect grammar. If Alice wasn't here to explain it, Sherlock wouldn't be able to make heads or tails what it all meant.

"You see this in kids and those studying it," Alice stated. "It was written by a man who at least knew the characters and the words, but not the grammar very well. But, some of it is questionable, I'd say it was written by a man who is either prone to drunkenness or horror shows."

"Does it say anything about a name, which it was owned by originally?" Sherlock gestured.

Alice was hesitated. He flipped through the pages, reading them over and over. He shook his head repeatedly as he did until he looked up to Sherlock. Fear was in his eyes. "He says his name is Frank. Frank Colton, 2001A Welsh & Windsor Avenue. That's impossible," he sputtered.

Sherlock eyed him as Alice quickly set down the journal and stepped away. "Impossible," Alice continued to mutter.

"Mr. Walker?" Sherlock reached out to him. His hand was swatted away. Alice stared at him.

He said to Sherlock, "I know him and this is _not_ him."

"Who do you think it is?" Sherlock gestured. He inquired further with, "Who would take up his name and visage?"

"A crazed man, no doubt," Alice shook his head. "This isn't even _his_ handwriting!"

Sherlock retracted his hands as he studied the situation. It was apparent there was more to this that Alice was letting on. Something more insidious and more in line with what Frank mentioned in his conversation with Sherlock. Perhaps, there was more to that meeting that Sherlock was willing to admit.

"You know what happened to him, Alice," Sherlock stared at him. "You know _exactly_ what became of his body thereafter."

Alice calmed down and was led to the sofa by Sherlock. As he sat, Sherlock made them tea and brought it out. "It was a long time ago," Alice sipped on his tea. "I don't know how anyone could've known."

"Conspiracies often have people willing to tell all when it suits them," Sherlock explained.

"Suppose that is true," Alice nodded. He sighed. "But even then, why now of all days, why not do it then?"

"His anniversary is coming up, perhaps that is why," Sherlock crossed his legs as he listened to Alice.

Alice shook his head, "It was his own fault. That idiot, I tried to reason with him, nay _try_ to talk him out of it. And he goes and does it anyway!"

"That's not the whole story, is it, what _really_ happened," Sherlock tilted his head. "Don't make me force it out. You of all people know that I am very keen and will do exactly _that_ if you continue to dodge my questions or attempt to divert them in anyway shape or form. I am a simple man, Mr. Walker, don't make me bored."

"You committed crimes that were never pried?" Alice inquired.

Sherlock nodded.

Alice nodded, too. "Then you know it well," he sighed. "I was paid to look the other way so many times I didn't know which was north and what was south. Hilton wasn't inclined to a scam, they were inclined to narcotics. I was paid to overlook details."

"And Frank confronted you over this?" Sherlock stared.

Alice shook his head. "He discovered a stub with my name on it at an office he was investigating. Two _thousand_ Euros and counted for, for helping some drugs get through border patrol," he took a deep sip of tea. When he rested the tea cup on the saucer he continued. "He was so close to exposing the truth that Hilton Associate had it laid out for me. Either I do what they said or they'll let me take the fall."

"And what did they say?" Sherlock inquired. He already knew the answer but he had to hear it from Alice. Alice uncomfortably moved around the stool and looked at Sherlock.

Finally, Alice told him. "On that night, they told me to kill him. Outright, no trace, if I did it they wouldn't turn on me. I lured him out near the warehouses where the usual business took place and I offered a cut of the deal. He wouldn't take it. We start yelling at each other. We fight and I pulled out my revolver. I said, "Damn it, Frank, when are you going to _learn_ that this is just the way things _are_!" and he had this look on his face. He says to me, "I know this is how things _are_. I've just been waiting for _you_ to admit it" and I pulled the trigger. It was through and through the heart, killed him instantly, had to find the bullet before I dealt with the body."

"And where is the body?" Sherlock wrote it all down mentally. So, Frank was right. He was killed by Alice.

"I couldn't bury it in Galahad, of course. I couldn't cremate it either; we were friends with the bloke who run it. So, I did what any would. I stuck his body in a body bag I stolen from supplies. Wrapped it in plastic and stuck it in the back of my junk car with crap over it to obscure the smell. I drove for so long, I didn't remember the trip almost. I do remember what became of his body; I paid off a man to take care of it. Gave him the story and left, never went back there and he didn't come around nor anyone," Alice explained. "Of course, before you asked, he died from complications during his surgery one year. I don't know what became of the body; I was inclined to think he'd cremate it and spread the ashes somewhere."

"Where was it that you met him?" Sherlock switched legs as he settled in his chair. He heard in response, "Fitzgerald…. Something, I don't know if it's still opened though, it's been a while."

"If it was, who would you talk to to learn about the whereabouts of the body?" Sherlock clasped his hands together. "He'd had to've told someone."

"If he told anyone, it'd be Patrick. I don't know if he's still about," Alice shrugged. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"Why don't we have a chat with him, yeah?" Sherlock immediately stood up. "It couldn't hurt."

"What do we gain from this?" Alice questioned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "It'd help solve the case," he told Alice.

Alice scoffed at him. "You suppose knocking over coffins will get us answers?" he responded.

"Of course," Sherlock nodded.

Alice snorted, "And why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugged.

Alice chuckled. "I may not like your occupation, but _you_ I like," he gave a small smile, not a big friendly one, but an acknowledging one. Sherlock decided not to give it much though, besides, if Alice trusts him a little then it'd make everything go swimmingly well.

Alice fumbled as he tried to remember where this Patrick lived. But then he said it wouldn't matter, Patrick loved one thing more than anything else. He loved good old stout on the tap and a good plate of pub food and he might as well live in the pub he used to go to daily. That pub was called the Olson Tavern and from going through his mental notes, Sherlock knew it was still opened and where it was exactly. It was a little ways away in a little quaint town north of London called Sherwood.

"Fancy a trip?" Sherlock gestured. "I'll buy you a pint."

"I don't drink pints, I drink from the bottles," Alice snorted. "But I realize your generosity and so I humbly agree."

"Good, come along, it'll be a long drive," Sherlock headed to the door.

Sherlock hailed a cab and the two were off to Sherwood. It was so small that service was spotty at best, texting was impossible and most of the time Sherlock had no bars on his phone. Because of it being small, there weren't any plans to expand service nor there was any hurry to the suggest any. Sherlock was without service and so was effectively blind with no way to contact John or Lestrade, even his brother.

"If he's not at the pub, where does he live?" asked Sherlock.

Alice responded, "He's probably living above the pub. Man can't live without his drink."

The cab rolled over the bumpy back roads toward one of two roads leading to Sherwood. Alice looked at his feet as he was formulating his own theories, Sherlock could tell. What those theories were, Sherlock wasn't privy. Asking him was out of the question, of course. He raised his head as he said finally, "Doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?" Sherlock blinked at him. Alice turned his head to him.

"Frank's personal belongings are gone. He had books donated to the library. His typewriter was sold as payment for his funeral. Everything ought to be gone," Alice shook his head. "Any _git_ with a phone could look up his death certificate and read the news articles. I'm sure his personal works were buried, symbolic I'm told."

"What do you propose?" Sherlock blinked.

Alice sighed. He said, "Suppose a grave robber dug up his coffin and read the papers. Or someone went through the archives and fell in love with him, I don't know."

"Did Frank have anyone he'd care about?" Sherlock asked him.

Alice responded, "Aside from his mother, rest her soul. I don't know who he was seeing or if he was seeing anyone. He was a private man. More private than you, I'd say."

Sherlock took it as the truth. Frank never let on he did not have a relationship with anyone nor was he inclined to tell even Sherlock. Truthfully, Sherlock understood his reasoning if he indeed had someone he was seeing right before he died. Considering what Frank and especially Sherlock did for a living, an enemy, even small and powerless, will use anything against them. Frank must've known this well.

"If he did, who would he see?" Sherlock wrote down everything he heard in his mind.

Alice responded, "Believe me, Mr. Holmes. The man was too high strung for his own good. Once he's working, he wouldn't stop until he's done. Dating and anything normal in that regard was cast like stones, quite like you if I draw comparison."

Sherlock considered it as a jab.

"I suppose news spread fast in Galahad if he did?" Sherlock blinked.

Alice snorted, "We'd know by the _moment_ we woke up!"

It was four hours when they arrived at the Olson Tavern. Sherlock paid and the cabby was off. Both he and Alice entered the pub and Alice looked around. He stopped when his green eyes met with a rather tall man with pale hair down to his waist and a long curly beard sitting in the back at a table. His glasses lit up in the dim light and motioned with his hand.

Alice walked toward the table with Sherlock following behind. Patrick stared at Alice. When Patrick talked, his voice was gravely, as if he had a nasty vice in his younger years that had affected him since. His accent was harsh and thick, it was a good thing Alice was able to understand him, Sherlock could barely understand what he said.

"Good god, I _knew_ it was you the moment you walked through those doors," he said to him.

Alice nodded. "How long has it been, Pat?" he asked.

Patrick counted. "Thirty years, I think," he replied.

Alice chewed on his lips as he said to Patrick, "I need a favor, Pat."

"Ah, a favor, what favor do you want?" Patrick inquired.

Alice and Sherlock sat down at the table. Sherlock bought Alice a bottle of scotch as he promised. As Alice drank his scotch he explained to Patrick. Patrick indicated he knew about Frank's body, Sherlock could tell by his body language.

"I need to know what became of his body, Pat," Alice said to him.

Patrick stared at him. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his dated sweater before wearing them again. "Alice, it's been three decades," he reminded him.

Alice nodded. "I know, Pat, I know. But I didn't have any other option. What became of it?" he gestured.

Patrick looked around the pub, checking to see if anyone was listening in. He turned back to Alice and shook his head. "I knew this day would come," Patrick said ominously. "He called to you, didn't he?"

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock was confused.

Alice scoffed at Patrick. "I see you haven't lost your religion," he said.

"He's come back, hasn't he?" Patrick looked alarmed.

Sherlock raised his hand, "No, sir, he hadn't."

"Then why did you come if he didn't?" Patrick looked at them. "He said he'd come back."

"When did he say that?" Sherlock tilted his head.

This was very interesting. It appeared something spooked Patrick. The mere mention of Frank's body was enough to make him look around the pub as if someone was listening in. It made this case very interesting, indeed.

"When he died, he came to me _in_ my dreams. He said that he'd come back," Patrick's eyes looked around the room. "He _told_ me!"

"Pat, you've drunken your share," Alice scolded Patrick. "For god's sake, just tell us what you done with it."

"He said you'd come. He said you _both_ would come," Patrick looked at them. He turned to Sherlock. He said to him, "He came to you, didn't he?"

Sherlock didn't know how to answer that without Alice knowing or looking foolish. But Patrick took his silence as a yes and sat back in his chair.

"You need to right this, Alice, you _need_ to see him," Patrick implored him. "You _need_ to make amends."

"He's right, Alice. You need to make amends. Will you take us to him?" Sherlock quickly said. Alice stared at him, giving him a scorn. Patrick nodded and said, "He buried him, Alice. He couldn't cremate the body, he had his heart attack that week remember. He told me to bury him in the woods behind Sherwood, but I couldn't. The ground has gone sour. But he threatened to fire me if I didn't so I did!"

"Where did you bury it?" Sherlock inquired.

"On a hilltop with a lone willow," Patrick responded.

Sherlock chewed on his lips as he said, "Take us there."

"We'll need shovels," Patrick got up. "Meet me near Sherwood Alley."

He paid his tab and left, leaving an angry Alice with Sherlock.

"Did you have to use me?" he hissed. Sherlock nodded.

"He wouldn't go if you weren't here nor would he if you weren't here to make amends, you knew this," Sherlock reminded him. Alice took a deep breath and exhaled.

"And when we _do_ find his body, what are we going to do then?" Alice asked.

Sherlock responded, "We'll give it a proper burial."

"Hah, if there's anything left," Alice reminded him. "It's been thirty years."

"We'll see," Sherlock stood up as he looked down at Alice. "Are you ready to talk to the dead, Alice?"

"Hah, the dead have been talking to me for years," Alice only said before he drank the remaining scotch from the bottle before he got up. "Give me someone to talk to."

They exited the pub and headed over to where Patrick waited for them, in front of Sherwood Alley. He had two shovels and handed them to Sherlock and Alice. He then said, "We'll need to take the path that the homeless never take."

He led them down the alley, through the intertwining areas, until they were near the waterfront. Patrick continued to lead them over the bridge and toward another path. As they went on the path, Sherlock noted it was barely used. It was so untouched the weeds were growing through cracks in the concrete. Patrick told him, "No one comes through here."

"Why's that?" Sherlock blinked.

Alice answered with, "Because not even fools would use it to shill."

"Because the ground goes sour through here," Patrick gave his, ignoring Alice's.

They walked until it became more wooded and less habituated. Eventually the concrete disappeared and in its place became a dirt path that led into the woods. Sherlock glanced back to see just how far from civilization they were and it was like looking at the stars without a telescope.

He turned back to see Patrick stopping at the foot of the woods as he pointed into it. Alice stopped behind him and Sherlock caught up with them. Patrick said, "The woods are quiet. The spirits are among us."

"Are they willing to talk to us?" Sherlock asked. He himself was a man of science and practicability, but in this case he found he had to put them aside to get to the truth.

Patrick nodded, "Yes, they are. They say where the willow sleeps."

"What does that mean?" Sherlock inquired.

Alice had a look on his face. Sherlock read it well. Alice caught Sherlock looking and said, "In Galahad, they used to tell us this story. A man so cruel once lived on the land. So cruel that the birds never chirped, the flowers never bloom or grow at all, the sun so afraid it never showed its face. He was feared by all until one day a peasant came to him. The peasant wanted food, but the man mocked him and stole his sack from him. The man, so pleased with himself, left with the sack back to his hut. He unraveled the sack to find that it was a human's head! Then he heard knocking on his door, scared, he hid the head in the lit hearth, covering it with soot. He heads to the door and there the peasant stood. The peasant revealed to be the Devil and demanded the man let him in. The man does so, afraid. The Devil demands that the man return the stolen sack. The man, shaking at his core, grabs the sack and hands it to the Devil. The Devil looked inside and was enraged. "What became of my tribute?" he asks. "What have you done with my tribute?"

"And the man was afraid of the Devil claiming his own or tearing up his hut, went and grabbed the head out of the hearth. He presents the head and begs for mercy. The Devil lamented that his tribute was tarnished and demanded that the man get him another. The man was hesitant, asking how he would do such task. The Devil tells him on the night the morning star is brightest, to go into the forest and look for the tree that sleeps. There will be a grave there and he would have to dig up the body and claim its head. The man was at himself, he dared not disagree with this but he was afraid of going into the forest alone. Nevertheless, he agrees to this, under the condition that if he does not succeed then the Devil will claim his head as tribute. It six nights after that the morning star was brightest and the man set out with a shovel to find the tree that sleeps. The tree was said to be far different than any other tree and the man should not have any trouble finding it. He scoured the forest, feeling his heart beat against his chest until he came across a peculiar tree on a hill. Its branches were low and hung long with the leaves pointing down. The leaves were thin and spiny, like thorns. And the man had to use his shovel to carefully walk under the tree without being pricked by the leaves. He starts to dig. Every time his shovel hit the earth he felt pain. He continued this, afraid to stop, because he believed he was just sore. It felt like hours to him and as he neared where the body was it felt like his body was on fire."

"When his shovel hit the coffin, the man cried out. He dropped to his knees and the shovel dropped from his hands. On the ground he pulls the shovel toward him and uses it to force open the coffin. Inside, there was nothing. The man heard cackling and looked up to see the Devil there. "You are my tribute!" he proclaimed. "When the time comes you will be dug up and your head brought to me by my servants!"

The man learns that the Devil only visited those with cruel hearts and the man before him was also cruel. The Devil buried him alive and that was the end of it. The story goes that those cruel are always buried under willow trees as they do not hold judgment and regarded as the only place cruel men are allowed to be buried," Alice finished.

"There's only one willow tree here," Patrick looked at Sherlock.

"We'll see, come on," Sherlock marched into the woods with them trailing behind. He was guided toward paths that didn't have thorny shrubs. He was coming up to a path when he was told that he would have to go off it. Though it seemed to lead deeper into the woods, Patrick insisted he walk with him and Alice through the shrubs. Patrick said as Sherlock caught up with them, "This will take us to the hilltop."

"How the _hell_ did you drag a body through here?" Alice questioned Patrick as he struggled. Patrick answered him, "I used a wheelbarrow."

"Must've gotten it from Mink," Alice told Sherlock. "Man was a cook."

"Come, we should not make them wait," Patrick quickly moved toward through the opening between trees. Alice and Sherlock hurried to catch up. The trees thinned and they soon became a rolling hill. At center was a hilltop with a tree. Because of it being dark, neither Sherlock nor Alice could see well, but were guided by Patrick as he hurried up the hill toward it. "Here, he's here!" Patrick shouted.

Sherlock struggled to climb up the hilltop as well as Alice, with their shovels they managed to get a good footing and were able to stand on top of the hilltop. Patrick looked at the tree and tilted his head. "He's here, I can feel him," he said.

"Why did you bury Frank under a willow?" Sherlock managed to say as he tried to catch his breath.

Patrick told him, "In life, he was a man of justice. In death, he is the man of vengeance."

"Pat, I've told you to kick that habit," Alice sighed. He turned to Sherlock to say, "He had a habit when I last talked to him. LSD, it was, he liked it with his cognac."

"I've taken my vows, Alice. It's you who should take his," Patrick only said. He pointed to the ground. "He is here."

Sherlock and Alice began to dig. Despite only being 67 years old, Alice was still spry. He was quick digging and didn't stop to breath until a little after they were below the ground. There were two separate piles of dirt from their efforts as Patrick directed them. Eventually, they stopped when Sherlock's shovel struck something. Sherlock pulled away his shovel and looked up to Patrick. Patrick nodded.

Alice used his shovel and thwacked the wooden box until it was loose enough for them to pry the top open. Using his shovel, Sherlock pushed the top to the side and were met with a sight. The wooden box was empty sans dirt and wood chips from the box. Alice stared in disbelief as he looked up to Patrick.

"Pat, he's _not_ in here!" Alice showed him.

Sherlock shook his head, "I don't understand."

Patrick stared at them both confusingly. "I hear him, talking! He was there, I _heard_ him!" he insisted.

Alice looked at Patrick. "Pat, where's the body?" he asked him.

Patrick pointed, "It _was_ in there!"

He stopped as he looked around, afraid.

"He's _here_! Can you _hear_ him, Alice? He is _here_!" he immediately shouted down in the hole. "Make amends now _or_ else risk eternal damnation!"

Alice was pushed by Sherlock to follow through. Clearing his throat,

Alice began, "Frank! It's me, Alice! You half-witted _git_ what the _hell_ do you gain from this? It's too late now! Why waste your energy or whatever spirits relies on to wreck havoc on me!?"

Sherlock looked around as the wind slowly picked up as a storm was pushing through. He heard Alice, "Frank, I'm sorry! I shouldn't've taken the money. I'm sorry I lost my temper and you lost your life. Just _talk_ to me!"

Patrick was first to fall. He fell into the hole, half his body in the wooden box. Sherlock knelt down near it and checked his pulse, dead. Alice huddled near the corner. Sherlock turned to Alice as he was screaming.

"You _were_ dead, I saw you die before my very eyes!" he cried out. "Goddamn you, Frank!"

He was the second to fall. His body fell over and almost landed on Sherlock. Sherlock fumbled backwards while he tried to make sense of the situation. He glanced up to see it there, looming over him. The plague doctor looked at him and in the pale moonlight Sherlock could see its mask faintly. Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out his trusty gun. He pointed it at the plague doctor, but instead of doing anything, it simply turned and walked away.

Sherlock could hear his own heart as he sat there with two dead bodies near him. When he managed to collect his mind, Sherlock checked the bodies. Close range gunshot, through the heart. Instant death, for both these men, and Sherlock was fumbling for his cell phone while he kept his gun up. There was barely any service. It was extremely limited and Sherlock couldn't spare time, so he did what any would in his situation.

He held up the phone to his ear as he said, "I need assistance!"


	24. Vengeance is Golden

Sherlock's mind was fettered with thoughts and feelings. Emotions he never thought possible bombarded him to the point of causing him to hold his head in pain. He heard the crackling sounds of the dispatcher talking to him, but he couldn't understand her. His heart was pounding loud enough to deafen the phone.

Two bodies were near him and they were shot before his very eyes. Though Sherlock had been shot at before, even witnessing several being shot in front of him, this event was very different for him. In those times where people were shot in front of him, he would've been tact. This time, he was panicking at a rate he's never done before. True he may have had moments where he panicked, but not like this. He felt his heart was going to give out from the stress.

Sherlock sat on the dirt ground as he tried to understand what happened. There was him and Alice digging up Frank's grave while listening to Patrick. Patrick started screaming about Frank and how Alice ought to make amends for his crimes, and then he fell down dead. Alice huddled near the corner as he was looking up to the topside, shouting before he died too. Sherlock didn't hear gunshots, they just felled to the ground. He was unable to comprehend what all this meant.

Then, while freeing his mind from its fettered prison, Sherlock started to think. He thought about Patrick more specifically. Patrick claimed that Frank visited him in some manner after his death. He also knew where Frank was buried. Then, Sherlock thought about how suddenly Patrick started to scream. It would've made sense if Patrick had suffered long term effects from his drug uses, but not in this case. It was as if Patrick had known they were coming. He didn't bring him and Alice to Frank's grave to make some sort of amends. Patrick was luring them. He lured them to this particular spot and in the familiar fashion seen in the previous murders, murdered. Alice now lying dead should've concluded this affair but Sherlock knew there was something else to it, now.

Sherlock wasn't killed solely because he wasn't a part of it. Or, the shooter had an ulterior motive that involved Sherlock and didn't want him dead, yet. Sherlock's mind then brought up the very figure he witnessed before, the plague doctor. Russel wore the plague doctor costume in order to frighten Alice in his drug induced state and used it to cover up his murder of Wallace. Lenny killed Russel. Sherlock didn't consider that until his imaginary meeting with Frank. Lenny would've known Russel's and George's schedules. Given his mannerisms during his meeting with Sherlock and John, no one would've considered him a suspect in anything.

He played them, like fiddles.

Whoever masterminded this knew about Lenny's dark history and held it against him. Lenny wasn't a studious man as claimed by the staff; he was but a mere janitor. His Oxford days were fabricated as means to ensure that no one would suspect him; after all, a simple man who liked his planes would never hurt a fly. And when Russel killed Wallace, Lenny ensured that Russel wouldn't give up the mastermind. It was why there was Russel's blood on the bird mask, he wore the mask when Lenny killed him and blood transferred to the mask. Lenny took the mask when he dumped the body as a way to throw of suspicion. Russel was a criminal and the police would've suspected he ran. He would've also left a trail of evidence because he panicked.

But then, Sherlock's mind trailed on the mask. Why would Lenny leave the mask so carelessly in the kitchen to be found?

Simple, he wanted George to find it and give it to him. Another way to throw off suspicion, Lenny would've known that George giving him the mask would make him less than a suspect but someone who didn't know what was going on. However, he made a fatal error. He gave Sherlock the mask in exchanged for his scarf.

Lenny knew Sherlock would've figured it out if he remained hesitate in giving him the mask and decided to play his cards. In the end, the mastermind killed Lenny, not just because of loose ends, but because he lost the evidence.

Then, Sherlock wondered about his scarf. Lenny wore it the night he died and it was missing when his body was found. Why take his scarf, what purpose did it serve?

The mastermind knew Sherlock was involving himself with the case. It was no coincidence that his scarf disappeared, it was hardly anything special but Sherlock wearing his blue scarves became something of a habit and people would've known who it was with him wearing a scarf. As for what the mastermind planned to do with the scarf, Sherlock didn't rightly know. Killers often take trophies of their victims, but as far as he could tell, Sherlock was still alive. Unless of course, the mastermind planned to kill him later, because he knew too much or because he was much closer to the truth than he realized, whatever the outcome was, Sherlock knew that it was coming to an end soon.

Faintly, Sherlock heard shouting. His tunnel vision prevented him from seeing properly as he snapped back to reality. He was sitting there with his cell phone up to his ear, his eyes wide opened, and bodies near him. The hole they were in was light up with numerous flashlights and men shouting. Sherlock couldn't properly hear them either, his ears rung like church bells at noon as he sat there with his back pressed against the solid wall of dirt.

Then, he heard that sordid voice once again. "I'm always one step ahead, Sherlock. And we'll be meeting each other soon enough. Oh, and detective, nice scarf," it said.

Sherlock knew he wasn't crazy. He might've been a highly sophisticated sociopath, but he wasn't crazy. He might've had his moments but those were neurotic. He absolutely knew he heard that voice clear as day and it wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. It sounded like he was there, right beside him, talking. Frank was keen, much keener than anticipated, and no doubt what Patrick said about him was true. In life he might've been the beacon of justice but in whatever state he was in currently, he was vengeful.

Sherlock's heart continued to beat rapidly as his head swirled around the event that unfolded. Three constables came down into the hole before shouting at him as he sat there motionless. Sherlock remembered nothing more. It was pure darkness in his mind as his body was carried out of the hole. Faintly, Sherlock could hear laughter in the darkness; it wasn't Frank this time, no. It was someone else. Who it was, Sherlock knew by heart. Someone who had come close several times over in almost killing Sherlock and John, someone who was more dangerous than anyone the dynamic duo ever met. There was no mistake at all, Sherlock knew him by voice alone, Morarity, and he was laughing at Sherlock in a childish manner that was as if this whole event was a children's show. Sherlock heard his voice clearly in the darkness, "Did you miss me, Sherlock, I'm told you and Frank are having lots of fun. Shame I couldn't join in sooner, but Frank told me that his business with you will be finished very soon and when it's over, well, you know me best."

Sherlock couldn't say anything. Not that it mattered. It was as if Morarity knew what he was going to say even before Sherlock could think about it. "Me and Frank are friends, didn't you know?" Morarity began. "Didn't think I could make friends, did you, ones that I wouldn't kill or maim. Oh, but I did and we came to a clear understanding. He's not very interested in you, Sherlock, you got in his way and you're being punished for it. Alice was going to die anyway, even if you did everything in your power to prevent it. Alice was loose cannon, a hack that got sacked for turning a blind eye on corruption while perpetuating corruption himself. Look at the facts genius, he's played you like a _goddamn_ harp and all _you_ got to show for it are _six_ bodies. Oh woe is you, you're doing _everything_ you can and _yet_ you can't even _tell_ when you're being drugged!"

Drugged, Sherlock was drugged, but how he didn't expose himself to any that he knew about.

"It shames me that you, my so-called arch nemesis can't even tell you were drugged. The answer was right in front of you and you couldn't tell it from a hole in a ground. Where did you go to your detective license, Derbyshire?" Morarity snorted. "But, I suppose you never thought drugs would've come into play, after all you just knew Alice was the one drugged. Did it ever once at all occur to you that Alice may've not been the only one drugged?"

Sherlock realized it. Alice wasn't the only one being drugged. Sherlock and John were also being drugged as well. Sherlock remembered John and the raven he claimed he saw. He didn't just see someone who the mastermind used to send the message, his induced mind saw a raven, just as the people on the internet claimed to have witnessed. There was no London Crow at all. It was all a drug induced crazed perpetuated by the one true mastermind. Sherlock and John only saw what they wanted to see because of it.

Morarity was pleased with Sherlock's deduction.

"Surprising what a little medical know-how can go a long way with dealing with the likes of the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes and his little pet, Dr. Watson. It surprises me how you _never_ figured it out. As for what it is exactly, Frank never said specifically. But knowing him as I do, it's a horror show, isn't it, Sherlock. You thought I was dead, didn't you, you really thought I was dead, my god, you must _really_ be a fool. Sad really, you were very interesting indeed, but I suppose I should've saw that coming, I mean come _on_ , Sherlock, you should've figured it out. I'll give you this, _only_ because I want you to know that I care. I know where Frank is and he knows where I am," Morarity sighed. "He wants to deal with you, of course I told him not to kill you, and after all, you were my little detective first. He agreed to my terms, I'm sure you'd want to know what his were, but that's not my business to discuss. Surprising, I know, I'm respecting Frank's business, but you see Sherlock, sometimes even a villain has standards. I know. It's shocking given what you and John go through daily. But, I want to make this clear, I _do_ care. Not to say I'll extend my hand when Frank beats you until you think you're a Nottingham brat, of course, but merely because _we_ still have unfinished business to attend to. Not now, no, Frank wants to talk with you first, but do not fret my dear little detective, when he's done we're going to have some _fun_. Of course, given Frank's temper, you might be in the hospital for a while."

Sherlock struggled to speak. He found himself in his flat, in his plump chair with Morarity pacing back and forth. He stopped when he noticed Sherlock sitting there and smiled at him. Sherlock groggily told him, "You're dead!"

"Oh please, spare me, Sherlock, we're in your head, you're hardly alive as it is," Morarity pointed this out to him. "And why the face, aren't you glad to see me again. I didn't come all this way just for kicks, nah; I'm here on a mission. A mission of God, oh no, even you know better to say that, Sherlock."

"Why is Frank doing this, what did I do to deserve this?" Sherlock unusually said. He'd never say that, it was something he'd never say even under the barrel end of a gun pointed at him. Yet, he was saying it and Morarity was enjoying every moment of it. He smiled at Sherlock as he said to him, "You don't get it, do you. Did you think it was mere coincidence that Alice turned up at your flat of all places, a man who said he'd have you arrested if he could, oh did you think Frank could've sent him your way. No, Frank didn't care for you either. He's quite fickle about letting people like you in on his commotion. But I implored dear little Alice to do so anyway, two birds and one stone if you will. And since Alice is dead, all that's left is you being punished for overstepping your place. Believe it or, Sherlock, you helped him. Delivering Alice to him on a silver platter, I'm glad to lend a hand. It wasn't easy drugging a LSD using schmuck, the dosage was a problem. I'm almost surprised I didn't kill him, well, didn't kill him then."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock eyed him. Morarity scoffed as he took up the skull that hung on the mantle and carried it around on his hand. Looking at it intently, Morarity said to Sherlock, "I wanted to give you a heads up. Not because I care, but because if I didn't, who else would. Believe it or not, Sherlock there are things in this world that are beyond you. But then again, with you, you'd never see it even if it stood in front of you waving a gun around in your face. Or maybe, _just_ maybe, you've finally gone mad yourself. Oh, you like to say you're a man of virtue and justice, but how's that faring, Sherlock?"

Sherlock knew what he was instigating.

"I am not crazy," Sherlock insisted.

Morarity began to laugh. Laugh like an insane man as he spun around the flat with the skull still on his palm. When he finally stopped he glowered at Sherlock. "Oh, you're not crazy. Funny how that is, you say you're not crazy and yet here we are, talking. I mean, you said it yourself, I couldn't be alive. Frank couldn't be alive either, he's dead, surely. Makes me wonder how well they know who the _real_ you is. Sometimes I wonder if you know who _you_ are. Perhaps deep down inside that little head of yours you're no different than us," he smiled. "Do you even know who you are anymore?"

As suddenly as Sherlock could jump up from the plump chair to grab Morarity, he found himself in a cell. He groggily pushed himself up to see the three constables looking into the cell with stern looks on their faces. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and flinched when the sunlight hit them. As he shielded his eyes he heard a stern voice, "You're in a lot of trouble, mate."

"I didn't do it," Sherlock struggled to say. "I didn't do it."

"Says he didn't do it," one of the constables said. Another beside him scoffed, "Probably say he didn't do the London fires."

"I didn't do it," Sherlock continued. "I'm a detective."

"Ain't any detective I seen," Samuel pointed at Sherlock

"Probably one of those hacks," Abraham commented.

"He's going to be in prison for a long time," Cain crossed his arms. "Two homicides and attempting to hide evidence, if that don't toss you in front of the Queen's firing squad; I reckon its life for you."

"For god's sake, ask the London P.D. they know who I am!" Sherlock struggled to stand up. He had a hand on the bunk as he felt blood rushing to his feet. "I am Sherlock Holmes; I live at 221B Baker Street."

The constables looked at each other before starring at him. They didn't believe him. They absolutely didn't believe him. Being small-town constables, they didn't seem to keep up with the times, not very interested from what Sherlock saw. Sherlock knew that they wouldn't take his word, he could tell them to call Lestrade to confirm, but they wouldn't give it a chance. He was stuck in that cell unless he came up with a sure-fire way of proving to them he indeed was Sherlock Holmes.

"You were named after your grandfather," Sherlock began with Samuel. "He fought in WW2 and was on the front during Normandy Beach."

Samuel looked at him as if he were a witch with dark curly hair.

Sherlock then started with Abraham, "You have three aunts, one of them has a habit, drinking, and she's currently in rehab. Your parents gave birth to seven daughters and you were their youngest and only son."

Abraham stared at him as if he was a magician.

Sherlock finished with Cain. "You have a sibling rivalry with your brother, Abel, and you went to Oxford to study medicine. But you got bored and took up as a desk jockey for Sherwood Police Department before moving up to constable."

Cain was as amused as a stern man was capable of. He crossed his arms at Sherlock as he studied him. Samuel and Abraham looked at Cain for guidance and he simply stared at Sherlock. Cain shook his head as he uncrossed his arms. He sighed as he turned to Samuel and Abraham. "Go have Eve call up the LPD and ask if they lost one of their own," he ordered them. They disappeared through the corridors and left Cain alone with Sherlock.

"What the hell were you doing in that hole," he asked him. "I've never seen a sight like that in years."

"I was solving a case, it brought me here," Sherlock answered. He sighed as he hobbled toward the bars. "I was trying to find a body and my only witness was killed."

"I noticed that. Why was Patrick with you," Cain continued as he scratched the back of his thick red hair, a trait he gotten from his mother. "He's not very fond of Londoners, um, no offense."

"Alice—the witness—said that he was responsible for the death of a man and that Patrick might've known where the body was," Sherlock sighed.

Cain nodded. "Patrick's not been the same these last few days. His mind kept running off from him so many times we were thinking he's finally going mad. The man was 76 years old, I'd imagine he pass away in his sleep, not being killed by a gunshot," he mentioned.

Sherlock nodded, too. He asked Cain, "Did you recover the gun. Do you know what caliber the bullets were?"

"The gun, we didn't find. The bullets however were from a revolver. Um, the exact one we don't rightly know, but I'd imagine we'll get results soon. Not many people use revolvers anymore, anyhow," Cain summed.

Sherlock frowned. The killer was gone and so any information Alice had went with him to his grave. Patrick was nothing more than bait that outlived his usefulness and so the killer made sure he would never tell anyone what he was told. On his mind, he knew he saw the plague doctor, it was there in London Park and now it was in Sherwood.

"Did you find footsteps, not counting ours?" Sherlock gestured. He was disappointed with Cain's answer.

Cain replied with, "Just yours and them."

Sherlock bit down on his lips as he paced around the cell. He stopped and turned to Cain. "Why am I not in the hospital?" Sherlock asked him.

"You were transferred here after they cleared you," Cain shrugged.

This answer didn't set well with Sherlock as he shook his head. "How could've I been cleared, my heart was beating like the bloody drums!" he exhaled. "I had tunnel vision and everything!"

"They said you had an elevated heart rate, it was unusual. You were one beat away from having a heart attack if they didn't intervene. Actually, your adrenaline was pumping at dangerous levels, too. Your pulse wasn't looking good either. They actually had to call in a specialist to do a double take. Anyway, summing it up, they had to flush your system and kept you overnight. Around 7 this morning they called us and said you were fit to be put in a cell. Your symptoms were gone and the drug results came back negative for any known substance, so it was good enough for us. You actually woke up thirty minutes after they brought you in," Cain rubbed his dark eyes, a trait he gotten from his father.

Sherlock listened to him and processed what he learned. He was a stone's throw away from having a heart attack; his adrenaline was reaching dangerous levels, and his pulse erratic. His symptoms were gone this morning and the doctors couldn't find anything to tell them what might've been. A negative drug test was a clue, nevertheless, most drugs stayed in a body for around a few days to a week or two, even more depending on the drug and dosage. It had to been something that'd easily be flushed by his body before anyone was the wiser. Morarity was indeed right; a little medical know-how was all one would need to make a horror show.

"Nothing was found in my system, nothing that'd tell me anything?" Sherlock stared at Cain. Cain nodded, affirming what he had said.

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip before he asked, "Did you test the bodies?"

"It was a hectic night, Sherlock, one minute we were doing paperwork and the next someone called us and said there were two bodies and a man in a hole somewhere in Sherwood Forest," Cain told him. "Actually, we checked your phone when they took you at the hospital. Your service provider has a rubbish signal here. No way could you've gotten a call or a text out, especially in Sherwood Forest."

Sherlock's light eyes widened. His mouth gap as he quickly said, "Who called it in?"

"Dunno it was some fellow. He didn't tell us his name, just said where we'd find you. Hung up and when we called back, the number was disconnected," Cain watched him pace around the room again.

Sherlock wasn't crazy; someone else was there with them. They were dressed like a plague doctor and they were staring down at Sherlock, watching him writhe as his mind was tearing itself apart. The question was, why call the police, what purpose would it have served, other than to frame Sherlock, perhaps. No, they weren't interested in a frame up; they wanted Sherlock alive and apt for what's to come. Or, they were covering their tracks, because Sherlock carried evidence. Morarity said he was drugged, with what, he still didn't know, but since a man with a risk of having a heart attack was the main priority, the idea someone was drugged unknowingly was an afterthought.

"Sir, you must believe me, someone is involved with those murders and they're wanted in London for three other murders. They're very dangerous and you must let me see the bodies because I believe they may contain evidence we need," Sherlock looked at Cain as he stopped again.

Before Cain could say anything, Abraham and Samuel return with looks on their faces. Cain asked them, "Well, what did they say, he one of theirs or not?"

"Yeah, he's LPD's finest and he does in fact live on 221B Baker Street," Samuel nodded. Abraham then said afterwards, "They were looking for him. Eve told us they were about to put a bulletin before she called them. They want him back in London ASAP. Their Detective Inspector was shot last night and they need Sherlock, said it was important."

"Lestrade was shot, what happened?" Sherlock's eyes shifted between Samuel and Abraham. "Who shot him?"

"Um, Eve was told that you might've known who it was. She said that your Detective Inspector was on a call, an anonymous tip, before he was robbed and shot. They never recovered the gun that shot him, but he claimed he shot the suspect," Abraham relayed what they learned to Sherlock as he processed what he was told. He then remembered that he asked Lestrade to help translate the pages that John copied; Lestrade stuck them in his coat's inner pocket.

"Did he say anything more, about the shooter, anything at all," Sherlock stared at them. "You must tell me, I need to know."

"Um, he claimed that someone dressed like a plague doctor was responsible, but they hadn't been able to find anything," Samuel said to Sherlock. That information only solidified the theory Sherlock had.

Sherlock nodded, his curly hair bobbed in the faint breeze, before he asked them, "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he woke up an hour ago. They want to keep him for a day, his blood work had unusual anomalies so they want to make sure nothing's wrong. Other than that, he's fine," Abraham answered. Samuel nodded as he added, "Oh and apparently someone named John Watson was looking for you, too, couldn't get a hold of you."

"He's my assistant, did he say anything?" Sherlock gestured. He was told by Samuel, "Said someone broke into your flat and stole something, he didn't say specifically, but he said you'd know what he meant, something about being a genius."

Samuel was looked at funny by the three men. He shrugged as he explained, "Sorry, my mother said not to swear around polite company, even if they're in a cell."

Sherlock was angrier than a crow having its food stolen by a swallow. Alice and Patrick were killed, Lestrade was shot, evidence was stolen, and the person behind all this was mocking Sherlock. Sherlock had a temper, as everyone does, but his was far different than the standard fare. If there was one thing that could be said about Sherlock, it was there were few things that set him off, of those few it was very simple to follow and too easy to forget. Never, under any circumstances, even villain or someone as apathetic as Morarity, does anyone lay a hand on his associates, his friends, and most of all his family. Whoever responsible had just made an enemy out of Sherlock and they would sooner learn the hard way that Sherlock was a man who was known for being over the top with his punishments. Not lethal of course, unless the circumstances are that lethal is no other option, but otherwise, they were going to be thrown out a window for a very, very long time until Sherlock gets bored. Then he'll string them up on a pole and leave them for the others to find.

"Now that you believe me, please let me out of this cell, and show me their bodies," Sherlock said calmly in a manner that would be called tranquil rage, as the trope was named. Externally he looked and acted calm and his voice did not falter with hidden rage nor showed that his emotions were rampant. Internally, he was coming up with ways to punish whoever responsible in a way that would make it very clear what Sherlock stood for. If anyone should have a problem with him, take it out on him, never bring anyone close to him into it, or else, you'll sooner wish Death will claim you, Sherlock will ensure it.

Sherlock was let out of his cell and led to the morgue that was connected to the station from the back. Inside a man named Jordan with his Lancaster accent and his olive eyes gleamed through his round glasses was overlooking the bodies. He turned to see Sherlock marching through the corridor with a look that made him instantly take a step back. Cain pointed at Sherlock, "He's cleared, Jo. He's working with the LPD; these two were connected with their case. Anything you find reports to LPD."

"Um, alright, but um, Mr. Ridge, would it be okay if either Mr. Simmons or Mr. Oak stays behind?" Jordan sheepishly looked at Cain. Cain looked back, bemused. While Sherlock stood near Alice's body, his back turned, Jordan mouthed to Cain. "He scares me," Jordan silently pointed at Sherlock. Cain sighed and shook his head, "Fine. Abraham stay behind, Samuel what's today's roster?"

"Eh, Leonard was drunk again last night and ran around buck naked," Samuel walked with Cain outside, leaving Jordan, Sherlock, and Abraham alone with the bodies.

Jordan cleared his throat as he asked Sherlock, "Um, I know that you know what you're looking for, but are you by chance looking into raven tattoos?"

Sherlock turned to him so quick he flinched!

"What do you mean by that, raven tattoo?" Sherlock eyed him closely. Jordan pointed to Patrick's body as he said to Sherlock, "When I was doing a look over, he had a raven tattoo on his back. I knew Patrick, sir, he couldn't get tattoos. He's allergic to the ink they use, he uh, discovered that back in Vietnam."

"Show me," Sherlock ordered him. Jordan nodded and helped Sherlock flip Patrick's body to show the raven tattoo. Jordan pointed at it, "This tattoo's too intricate for being the work of an amateur. If I had to say, whoever did this has some serious issues."

The raven tattoo was indeed intricate and the way it was tattooed gave the appearance that it was forcibly applied to Patrick, with swollen skin filled with pus and scars from the needle stabbing through the skin. On a hunch, Sherlock checked Patrick's wrists and ankles and found no discoloration. It bothered Sherlock until he realized Patrick willingly allowed himself to be tattooed by the mastermind. As for why, Sherlock could only say that Patrick thought by giving up Alice he would be spared. Alas, like the first three victims, he didn't realize until his sudden end that he wasn't spared and that the mastermind considered him nothing more than a loose end.

What the mastermind held over Patrick's head, Sherlock concluded it was his LSD habit. Patrick must've been led to believe if by doing this, he would be supplied with LSD that he ever so adored. The mastermind knew well that someone like Patrick would do just about anything for their fix, even if it meant cold murder. Using that, it wasn't hard to string Patrick along. Sherlock only wanted to know when Patrick became involved with this and how he knew when Sherlock and Alice would come to Sherwood. "Where does Patrick live?" Sherlock inquired.

Jordan told him, "205 Westwood Flats."

Sherlock nodded and thanked him. After finishing up with Patrick's body, Sherlock checked Alice's. Alice did not carry the raven tattoo as the others. Instead he had military tattoos from his years in the service before transitioning out and becoming an officer. Needle marks where he was injected medication faintly showed on his arms, healed proper and no signs of force. With everything wrote down, physically and mentally, Sherlock and Jordan collected blood samples. Jordan uneasily looked at Sherlock as he readied the vials of blood to be sent off for testing. He asked, "What does it mean the tattoo?"

"It means that someone had been using people. Using their past transgressions against them, they are able to do anything as needed, and when they've served their purpose, they are killed," Sherlock gave a flat-out answer. Jordan couldn't help but flinch and take a step back, Sherlock didn't blame him for doing so, and it was something that was frightening. It was horrifically clever that someone would exploit the transgressions of people in order to further their goals, while Morarity done similar, he just strapped a bomb to them and made Sherlock answer questions and or give explanations.

"I'm heading toward Patrick's flat; I trust you can handle the rest?" Sherlock looked at Jordan. Jordan nodded. Sherlock turned to Abraham and asked, "Can you take me there?"

The flat was north of Sherwood located near some businesses. It was small and unassuming, much older than the businesses, meaning it survived the modernism in the late '50s. Pulling up, Abraham met with the landlord while Sherlock walked up the cobbled steps and entered the building. He followed the stairs until he gotten to the second floor and walked down the narrow hallway until he found Patrick's flat. With a key he acquired from the landlord, Sherlock entered the flat to find it tidy. The sofa was from the '70s, the TV set was from the '90s, the fridge looked to be the oldest furniture that Sherlock could see, being from the '50s. Moving around the flat, Sherlock took note of everything inside. Frames on the walls contained family photos, graduation pictures, copies of popular works of art, and degrees from Nottingham University, business and chemistry.

Sherlock went to the unique bookshelf, made of PVC and plastic shelves, and found books pertaining to chemistry, history of drugs, the usual one would find in someone's home that happened to have a LSD habit. Looking through the books, Sherlock hoped to find clues on how Patrick was contacted and brought aboard the nefarious plan to rid Alice. The only thing Sherlock found was bookmarks, dog ears, and stains from pipes. Nothing that stood out from the rest and Sherlock moved toward Patrick's bedroom.

His bed frame was made of metal, his mattress was ten years old, his comforter was new, having the Union Jack as its pattern, the wallpaper screamed of pink flowers and yellow backgrounds. The closet was filled to the brim with dated clothing and shoeboxes with various contents inside them. One shoebox contained Patrick's favorite magazines. One contained his most valuable possessions, gold chains and pocket watches. Another contained bibles of various versions.

Sherlock rummaged through his dresser, his night stand, looked under the bed, and found nothing. There seemingly was nothing in Patrick's flat that would've told Sherlock what he needed to know. Sherlock was very thorough and checked around the flat a second time and once more came up with nothing. He thought that whoever behind this had taken the incriminating evidence as done in Sherlock's flat, until he walked over the wool carpet and heard a peculiar sound. It sounded hollow, muffled by the squeaky floorboards. As Sherlock pressed his foot against the spot where he heard it, he felt the floor push back, as if it wasn't set correctly.

Pulling up the carpet, there was a plank that was discolored and suffered from faint damage from being pulled back repeatedly. Kneeling down, Sherlock pulled up the plank a tad faster than he anticipated, causing decades old insulation and dust to fly into his face. Coughing, Sherlock pulled back and carefully wiped away the offending particles before glancing into the space under the plank. Hidden under a newspaper, there was a set of stationeries. Carefully pulling them out, Sherlock studied them. He found one stationary was older than the rest, yellowed significantly. Opening it first, Sherlock read the contents.

It wasn't time stamped, but given the age of the paper, it must've been close to thirteen years. It gave some information for Sherlock to use in his deductions.

* * *

Solomon, its Henry,

I couldn't reach you by phone. I'm told that Sherwood was upgrading its service towers and much of the residents were without service for a while. So, I had to send you a letter. Same difference, yeah?

I couldn't find it, Solomon. Went everywhere you told me to, couldn't find anything, not even a single lead.

I swear, I couldn't find it, I tried with every fiber of my being but I couldn't find it. None of my contacts turned up with anything either, they're just as mystified as you. I hate to say it, but I think it's a lost cause. There's nothing left of it by now, I'm sure of it. If it was still intact, someone would've said something, all I'm saying. Maybe you were wrong, maybe

I'll try again another time, but for now I wanted to discuss something else with you. You won't believe it. Someone found some of his old stuff, or claimed to have. I don't know for sure. Old draft papers, I'm told. I'd learn more but the guy went off the handle and almost killed a constable. Luckily he got caught and is locked up somewhere. I'll find things out as I go.

But, Solomon, I can't get or even look at those draft papers, they turned evidence. The Wigs say they're needed to prove the guy was unstable. They won't turn them over to me, said in a polite fashion to sod off. I can't do anything about that, Solomon; I tried the best to my advantage. The only way for me to know for sure is if I interview him. The problem I have of course is, well, he's dangerous, Solomon. The Wigs might've not let me look at the draft papers but they sure as hell didn't disappoint me with the details. The man was a real loony, you ken?

He's obsessive, too. I'm talking homicidal obsessive, like someone who even Hannibal Lecter would look at like he's a loon. Even if I could interview him there'd be no way I can do it without being eaten with beans on the side, guards notwithstanding.

Listen, I thought I should warn you though, that guy's a bit twitchy. I'm not talking cocaine or the usual; I'm talking one stone throw away from setting fire to London Bridge. So, listen, from a friend, ease up on your inquiries, mate. Wait a little until he's taking so many drugs he thinks he's the damn Queen.

I'll let you know more as I go about it. I'm told it'll be a while before he's processed and locked up. I'll catch you later, stay safe.

* * *

Sherlock's suspension mounted. He didn't expect this turn of event at all. So, Patrick was conversing with someone named Henry. It appeared that Patrick was looking for something, but Henry couldn't find it even with his own contacts. The mention of a man who attempted to kill a constable was interesting. It was also a clue. Wanting to know more, Sherlock dug through the stationeries until he found a short follow up letter from Henry dated around 2013. This time, it appeared he was in distress and that he was rushing to write this letter as quickly as he could to get it sent out, why Sherlock could only guess. From the nature of his writing, it was Henry's last.

* * *

Solomon, it's Henry again,

I can't write long, I gotta go.

He got out. I don't know if you know, but he got out. How, I don't know, the details are dicey. They want to keep this quiet as humanly possible. They're afraid the attention the Beebs would bring will set him off again. Listen, I'm not joking, the man's a danger to himself and others. He's as crazy as the other guy, the one you told me about that day, Mortuary?

Point is I don't know what he's up to or where he's going. He might just accidentally off himself, it's happened before, yeah?

But, I don't know, no one knows where he went or if he's still alive. They're looking out for him but so far he hasn't turned up. Look, I know you paid me for a job but I have to abscond. This is getting too close for comfort, Solomon. I can't help you anymore. I know I agreed to the terms, I'll pay back the money, but I can't do it. Listen; when I know I'm in the pink, I'll contact you. And listen, he might've changed his name. Stay safe, mate. Talk to you later.


	25. Ever to Grace His Halls

Sherlock sat in his plump chair in his flat on 221B Baker Street. He held his violin in his lap as his light eyes stared straight at the two men in front of him. Both Frank and Morarity were standing there, arms crossed and staring down Sherlock, looks in their eyes did not indicate they were malicious. Rather, they were not there to kill Sherlock outright, they wanted to chat with him, reasons for were beyond even him. However, the things they said to him

"Look at him, look at his little eyes," Morarity, snorted at him, pointing at his eyes. "Look at 'em, what sort of horror shows go on behind them that we're not privy to, I wonder. Are they worse than mine or they will become worse as mine as time goes, which is it Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't ask him, Jim, the man's not going to answer you truthfully. After all, he's no different than us, even if he pretends he isn't," Frank's silver eyes moved toward Morarity. Morarity agreed and sighed, shaking his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at them both. He responded with, "You're wrong, I'm not crazy. I'm not like either you!"

"He claims he isn't," Morarity titled his head. "Sounds like something only a crazy person would say, wouldn't you agree, Frank?"

"Oh I agree, Jim, look at him, he's cracking at the shell. We better get a skillet near him, I dare say we're having eggs Benedict," Frank grinned at Morarity and the two gave a hearty laugh.

Sherlock looked at them both, his brow raised as he stared. When the two finally stopped laughing, they started to point at him, in an accusing fashion. "He won't admit it, he'll never admit it," Morarity was the first to say. Frank nodded and smiled.

Frank said in response, "He'll no sooner swim the Thames than admit the ugly truth. When are you just going to admit it Sherlock, what's it going to take for you to just admit…"

He trailed as he gazed at Sherlock. Sherlock could only stare back. Frank smiled as he finished his sentence. "You think you're normal, don't you, Sherlock. What you do, it is all fun and games for you, I am sure of. Nevertheless, even you do not realize what people think of you. They think you are nothing more than the men you put away. A crazed man who _hides_ out in his flat for weeks at a time, _only_ coming out to hunt, a frenzied man who is only going get himself killed because that _is_ what he does. He lives on the edge of society and does not realize that society thinks lesser of him than we do. That same society who will push you off the edge when you are no longer useful, that society is frightened of you, they don't know the real you. Even you don't know who you are anymore, isn't that right?"

The words Frank spoke were needles in Sherlock's head. He tried to rationalize everything spoken and yet, he could not. Frank knew this as he stared at him; his silver eyes seemingly attack Sherlock's light blue eyes. Sherlock shook his head as he affirms as before, "I'm not crazy. I am not like you. They won't turn on me!"

Morarity rolled his eyes. He gave his response in his usual fashion, with some words and sentences his voice raised to shouting levels and some he accented. "Society _will_ abandon you, your friends _will_ abandon you, and I don't think it'll take much for your family to abandon you either. How is he, Sherlock, your brother, you still talk, I am sure you do, you do not want poor _mummy_ worried or barging into your life unannounced. Admit it, you would want that _don't_ you, your family not in your life. You will keep your brother around, only _because_ you want to feel superior. Nevertheless, with no mummy or papa to run amok in your life, you are free to do whatever you wanted. Moreover, I do not mean staying up past nine, genius," Morarity snorted as he started to pace around the flat while Frank continued to stand there. With his arms behind his back, Morarity continued to tell Sherlock everything wrong about him and his life. What he called the horrible truth that Sherlock would not admit to himself, even under the threat of killed by his nemesis.

Sherlock could not stand up to give Morarity a good punch in the face and so left in his plump chair cradling his violin, like a security blanket. Everything they have said so far has been nothing but needles in his head. Sharp needles, medical by the points, stabbing the delicate cranium in throes of rage, Sherlock was unable to do anything to stop the pain and they were getting started.

Morarity stopped at the photograph of one of Sherlock's popular cases, the Lady in Pink. He tilts his head at the photograph, studying it, before he turned away from it to look at Sherlock. He then continued his horrendous speech.

"Society looks at you, it studies you, and it does not know what to do with you. You make it intrigued with the cases you solve so it keeps you around. Eventually, society gets tired and tries to push you away. Only, you will not go away. You want to stay here, in 221B Baker Street with your skulls and books and rubbish like that. Therefore, society decides the only way it can get rid of you is by ignoring you. You do not like that, so you start making noise and eventually society comes up with us to shut you up for good. Then when that does not work, society decides slowly erode its ties around you. Poisoning them with whatever society knows you will not see or smell, by the time you notice, it will be too late and society will do what society does best: screwing over people, like you. Your, uh, "friends", they are only your friends until an opportunity opens up and they leave you. You think they like you, your intellect, your dashing blue eyes, they do not, genius. You are just their entertainment. You know those actors that turn up once a while, playing expies of you; you think they do it because they like you, your little cases, and the people in your life. They do not; they only play as you for money. They do not care about you. In fact, right now, there is an actor with blue eyes, just like yours, currently earmarked as an expy of you. He says he likes to play as you, but we both know even actors are terrible liars and poor showman. I mean, good god, sit him in a room full of oil drums rigged to blow and he'll tell you everything under the sun including what he eats in the morning and what he drinks in the noon. Poor, unreliable, liar, and it are only getting worse by the day's light."

Frank slowly nodded. "And we come around a full circle, you see Sherlock, we aren't crazy because our minds weren't threaded properly, we were made crazy by society rejecting us. You can argue that society hasn't done anything wrong, but we all know that society is as, well, fluid as time itself, when you push against it, it pushes back, hard," he summed for Sherlock.

Sherlock only stared at him, still frozen in his plump chair while cradling his violin. His eyes were wide open and that was the only thing he could do as he watched Frank lean in his right ear. Frank said in a cold voice that sent shivers down Sherlock's back. "You're afraid to admit that in the end; the Great Detective is forever alone, driven to madness by those around him. The one thing you have to your name that you know you can rely on is your precious cases, because they do not judge you, they do not pick apart your flaws or imperfections. In truth Sherlock, me and o' Jim were like you at that age, unbelievably. We thought what we were doing was for the good of humanity, but then society reminded us that no matter how much good we are doing, society makes the rules, and it only lets you think you win. We were cast aside, told to hit the road, never to come around anymore, all the while they praise the ones who break the laws and do much more harm than a lowly journalist and a doctor. So no surprise when we came back the way we are. You can say that, it's not people who are monsters, it's the society they were raised in that made them that way."

Morarity nodded as he stood near Sherlock has left side. He bent down to lean in to say to Sherlock, "Afraid of being alone, afraid of being forgotten, that's all there is to it. You intentionally get yourself into dangerous situations simply because you know in your little heart that is the only way you are not going to be lost to the ages of time. You self-destruct to get people to stay close to you, your narcotics binge was not for the addiction, and it was mere attention. Just admit it, o' bean, you only wanted attention and praise but society burnt you."

Sherlock heard them both say, "The actual truth behind our little tangent is quite simple. You did not think we would say all that for fun did you; no all this had a purpose. Whether you get it or not does not concern us one bit. You are afraid of being alone. Your friends abandoning you and your family disowning you, you are afraid of them, aren't you. You put on a good show, keeping them around, but you worry that it is not enough. You are climbing dangerous heights just so you can hide your misery. But that's not the whole truth either, is it?"

Suddenly, the flat morphed into a cold dark room. Sherlock was strapped down to a table and leering down on him were Morarity and Frank, both looking down on him with their cold dead eyes.

"Join us, Sherlock," they said in unison as their skins paled and became rotted, their eyes sunken into their heads and their faces wrinkling. "Join us and you won't have to be alone. Why would we judge you, if we're alike?"

Sherlock tried as he could, but he just could not escape the restraints and forced to watch Morarity ready an electronic saw. No words were coming out of Sherlock's mouth as he tried to scream for help. They knew it too as their rotted smiles gave any indication. "Let's make that brain of yours smile," Morarity's corpse smiled as it shuffled toward Sherlock's head with the electronic saw in his skeletons hands. Frank nodded, his unhinged jaw bobbling up and down. "Make it sing!" it hissed at Morarity. Morarity tisked with his nonexistence tongue, "Patience, we still have some work to do before we can make this _worthless_ sack of flesh dance!"

Sherlock only watched as the saw turned on and brought near his head, tearing apart his curly hair and neared his cranium. In the background, he heard faintly in their horrid voices, "Who's the _real_ Sherlock Holmes?"

"Sir, sir we're here!" Sherlock stirred from his sleep by the cabby. He groggily pushed himself up from the seat to find that he had reached 221B Baker Street. He turned his head to the concerned cabby as he rubbed his eyes. "Sir, are you alright? You've been muttering under your breath and sweating like a Cornish hen since I drove into London."

"I'm fine," Sherlock huffed. "How much is the fare?"

"Are you sure you're alright, you look pale, like you seen a ghost," the cabby worried. "I was this close to pulling into the nearest hospital."

"Did I say anything, anything at all?" Sherlock looked at him. The cabby shrugged as he replied. "You said, "You were dead, I watched you die!" and that was it."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes again before he pushed himself toward the back of the passenger's side to look at the dial. He studied the numbers before reaching into his pocket and giving the cabby his fare. The cabby still had a worried look on his face. "Are you positive that you don't want me to take you to a hospital?" he sheepishly asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm fine," he responded sternly before he pushed himself out of the cabby and stretched. Bones and joints popped as he yawned groggily. While physically he was all right, mentally however, he felt like he did in fact swim in the Thames. His mind played the events of his nightmares as if they were real and it took his breath out. It felt so real he smelt the carcass stench as the two men were rotting before his very eyes. He even felt the electronic saw tear out his hair by the roots and blood pooling. Worse, he even felt the saw touch his cranium. "I'm not crazy," Sherlock muttered to himself. "I'm not… crazy."

He brushed off his coat, walked up the steps, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to him and smiled warmly. "We were worried. When John and they couldn't get through we thought the worse," she said to him worryingly. Sherlock waved his hand. He said in response, "I'm dreadfully sorry for my absence. Are you alright, Mrs. Hudson, I was told there had been a robbery."

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she nodded. "Aye, I was out doing my errands and gotten back to find your door open. I thought it was you or John so I gone up to see if something was wrong. It looked like someone took a sledgehammer and thrashed it around your flat. I had to call John," she explained to Sherlock as he stepped up onto the stairs. "They even made a noose with one of your scarfs and stuck that _ugly_ skull in it!"

Sherlock stopped and slowly turned to her. "My blue one?" he asks. Mrs. Hudson tilted her head. "Sherlock, they're black, gray, or blue, with you," she reminded him.

"The one that was stained from being shot at while on a case at the Louvre," Sherlock detailed the scarf. Mrs. Hudson's eye widened and she nodded, pointing her boney finger at him. "Yes, that's the one," she affirmed. "But I thought you said you lost it."

"I did lose it, someone's returned it," Sherlock turned back to the stairs. Behind him, he heard Mrs. Hudson say, "Can't people return things like _normal_ people?"

Sherlock walked up the steps toward his flat. It felt like every step was heavier than the last. By the time, he reached his door it felt like his feet tied with weights. Opening the door, Sherlock's light blue eyes gazed upon his flat. Everything changed. It appeared that after the robbery, John and Mrs. Hudson worked to fix up the flat for Sherlock. The navy rug that sat snug near the fireplace, replaced. There were new tables here and there. Moreover, everything shuffled around. There at his usual spot on his laptop was John.

John's dark eyes moved toward Sherlock and they narrowed as he turned his head. "First you disappear without so much as telling anyone where you were going. Second, you disappear with Alice. Third, you end up in Sherwood, what the hell were you two doing up there?" he scorned him. "Where's Alice?"

Sherlock chewed on his lip as he said to John, "Alice's dead."

"What?" John blinked as he stood up from his seat. "What do you mean?"

"We went to Sherwood to find Frank's body," Sherlock began to explain as he looked around his flat. "It was a trap. He knew we were coming."

"Do we know anything about him, anything at all?" John asked him. Sherlock slumped in his plump chair and shook his head.

John chewed on his lip as he paced around the flat. "Then it ought to stop now, right? He got what he wanted, yeah?" John reasoned, or tried to, as he walked around. "He's not going to kill anyone else, right?"

"He's going to come after me, John," Sherlock told him. "My scarf ensures it."

"Why take the scarf only to return it later?" John asked him. "What's the purpose?"

"A calling card, John," Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

John stopped near his laptop before he turned around to face Sherlock. "Why come after you, what links to this?" he wondered. Sherlock answered, "I'm the Great Detective and I've begun to be a thorn in his side."

"Aren't you always a thorn in someone's side," John retorted. He stopped before taking a deep breath and rubbing his brow. "What are we going to do, Sherlock?"

"John, I need you to do something for me," Sherlock began. "Go get my black bag. Not the cheap polyester knock off, the leather one, the doctor one."

He shooed John away as cogs in his head turned. He purposed that the Sherwood Hospital did not find anything because they went through the textbook list of known drugs and narcotics. They never accounted for a lunatic with access to medical knowledge. John brought the black leather doctor bag before Sherlock. Sherlock thanked him and pried open the bag by unhitching the claps. He pulled out the equipment one would have needed to take blood samples. As for why a man like Sherlock would want or need such equipment, one must remember that Sherlock always accounts for the littlest things.

"I need you to run my blood," Sherlock instructed John. "They missed something."

"What do you mean?" John eyed him. "Sherlock, are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"

"John, I think I was drugged," Sherlock uncharacteristically said to him. He coughed as he corrected himself. "John, I need you to do this. Test your blood as well; I need to cover my bases."

John agreed and helped Sherlock draw a vial of blood. As he helped, Sherlock told him about the American bills and how they been drugged that way.

"So, you're saying that I wasn't going mad, I was just drugged," John summed. Sherlock shrugged. John carefully tucked the vial away and looked at Sherlock. "I'll go run tests with Molly. As a doctor and a friend, I advise you to settle down for a while. You witnessed a shooting and from what little you decided to text me, you witnessed a lot."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock coughed. He stopped before quickly saying, "And see if you can get anything from my scarf."

John shook his head as he walked toward the table, "It's my oath."

He gathered his belongings and headed down the steps. When the door closed, Sherlock try to do just that. He settled in his seat as he tried to understand what was happening. The nightmare he had, the absurdity of this case, everything about it was driving him mad. He could not understand it and it infuriated him. Everything about this case, all the deaths that occurred, all on Sherlock's watch, and he had nothing to show for it. His evidence stolen, his star witness was dead, and now from what fevered madness he witnessed, the lunatic responsible was going to come for him next. The scarf was one way to draw attention to an impending doom.

Sherlock rubbed his throbbing eyes. He muttered under his breath, "I've gone mad."

He swore he heard a voice beside him. "He finally admits it," he heard. Sherlock lowered his hand quick and jolted up. His light blue eyes moving around to the flat, only to find that he was alone, and burrowed his head in his hands as he tried to calm down and settle.

Sherlock heard humming coming from the doorway as Mrs. Hudson came into the flat with a tray. "You're about to run yourself mad if you keep it up," she scorned him as she sat down the tray on the table in front of the sofa. "John told me. You're almost forty years old, is this how you want to live your life?"

"What is it Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock lowered his hands to find that on the tray was a plump minced pie in the center with two plates and a cutter. Near it was a teapot and cups.

Sherlock might be abrasive, rude, and downright horrible to work with on his worst days, but even he could not deny that he needed a break and some pie and tea courtesy of Mrs. Hudson was an acceptable way.

He pushed himself up to look at Mrs. Hudson. "I know, I know, I've told you that I'm not your maid. But this was out of my own volition," she exhaled as she cut two slices of the minced pie. She brought one plate toward a slice and sat it on it before doing the same with the other. Handed the plate of pie and a fork, Sherlock mustered a very genuine, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"You really need to pace yourself, dear. You'll get sick if you keep it up," Mrs. Hudson warned him. "Your brain needs a beak."

"It's not simple as that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock told her. "I have to be at the ready."

"And end up like Mr. Lestrade?" Mrs. Hudson scorned. "He was fortunate to have backup, but you; you're always running off without John. You're going to get yourself hurt."

"I know what I'm doing Mrs. Hudson, thank you for your concern," Sherlock chewed on a piece from his pie. The usual ingredients with the exception being the addition of cinnamon, it was subtle, not enough to taste off the bat. However, Sherlock was not going to comment on free pie.

"I sure hope you do," Mrs. Hudson sighed as she poured them tea.

Sherlock's mind began to settle and slowly and surely, his mind was at normal capacity. Not a threat to cause neither it dire nor a clue to drive it utterly mad, just cogging along. The slice of pie was the only normal thing Sherlock ever had since he started this case a few days ago. It felt like he had been running around nonstop without as much as a breather. Sleeping soundly, nightmares withstanding, in the cabby in the trip back to London, was the only rest Sherlock ever had.

All of it would come undone in the blink of an eye.

Sherlock received a second piece of pie by Mrs. Hudson. He thanked her as he was about to cut a piece off when he heard noises coming from the kitchen. His light blue eyes darted to see a familiar sight.

Sherlock stared as he saw standing there with food in his mouth as he wiped his food tipped fingers on the dishrag, Morarity. Morarity rolled his eyes as he said to Sherlock, "I'll admit, Mrs. Hudson's pie could've tasted better. She should have added more cinnamon. Cannot blame her though, you know how it goes with old people. How's your parents by the way, they still in and about?"

"I should've added more cinnamon though," Mrs. Hudson commented as she poured herself another cup of tea. "It's hard measuring cinnamon, though."

"Personally, I'd go for nutmeg, earthier flavor, but hey, you can't complain," Morarity swallowed the remnants of the pie as he walked over and plopped down beside Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson then mentions, "I should try nutmeg next time. I'm told it's earthier."

Sherlock sat there with a plate of pie in one hand and a fork in another. His eyes had trouble comprehending what they were seeing as his ears and mind try to understand the situation. There he was, Morarity, having himself a slice of pie, sitting beside Mrs. Hudson, commenting. Then, Mrs. Hudson not noticing his presence or anything, really. It was to say, an unusual experience for Sherlock.

Morarity was having a bit of fun as he sat there beside Mrs. Hudson. He grabbed for Sherlock's cup of tea and sat back. "Oh come now, you expect me to wash down minced pie with milk?" Morarity sneered at Sherlock as he brought the cup to his lips. "I'm told that's not very kosher in some parts."

He proceeded to drink the tea and winced. He sat the cup back on its plate and placed back on the table. He looked disgusted by the look of it. "She's good at pie making but rubbish at tea making. How is this possible?" he wondered as he wiped his mouth with a tissue. "She ought to seep the tea longer. I'm drinking green water!"

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock peculiarly. "Are you alright, you look pale. Well, paler than usual. You should really get out more," she noticed. Sherlock blinked rapidly before nodding. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, but you should've seeped the tea more," he quickly said in response. Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement, "I should've, but I got so worried about leaving you up here alone."

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock coughed.

Morarity rolled his eyes. "Kiss up," he snorted.

Sherlock swallowed everything he ever had to finish his second and third slice of pie, his third and fourth cup of tea. All while, he listened to Morarity who sat there bored, waiting for acknowledgement.

Mrs. Hudson collected everything and Sherlock held the door open for her as she headed down the stairs. Once Sherlock confirmed she was gone and out of earshot, he turned his attention to his unusual guest.

"How is this possible," Sherlock scorned at him. "I'm not dreaming!"

"Oh, how idiotic can you get," Morarity waved his hand at Sherlock. "You didn't think we'd leave you alone here, did you?"

"Why, why are you doing this?" Sherlock hissed. "What purpose does this serve?"

"Sherlock, my nemesis, we both know the purpose of my visitation," Morarity wagged his finger.

Sherlock winced, "Where's Frank?"

"Frank's busy," Morarity, sighed. "Busy, busy, busy, reminds me of a certain someone. You know, it gets lonely where I am. It will not kill you to visit me once a while. My god, bring me liquor from Queen Lizzie's cabinet, she won't notice a tall dark and handsome fellow rummaging her belongings, won't she?"

"Where are you, then?" Sherlock stared at him. Morarity sighed as he clasped his hands together and said to Sherlock slowly, "We both know the answer, you're just dodging it."

"I don't," Sherlock objected only to scorn for it by Morarity. "You don't really understand what I'm trying to do, do you? No, of course you do not. You are the lowly detective who can solve anything by himself. Damn his lovely nemesis trying to help him beat Frank's game. However, it is for my own benefit, as we both know. You do not get it, do you? Sherlock, my sweet annoying Sherlock, you knew from the get-go the ugly truth. You just ignored it and kept on. You liked the challenge and you did not want it to end. Now, it is coming back to bite you on the _arse_. Frank knows it just as I do. That's why this complicated matter is happening."

"You're not dead," Sherlock shook his head. "I know it."

"Maybe, maybe not, come on Sherlock, you're the brains to my brawns, enlighten me. Don't you think I'd have a plan in case of my untimely demise, of course I would, it's natural for me. You say I am alive but you watched me die. You tossed me off a waterfall last I remember," Morarity picked at his teeth, digging out stuck meat and herbs. "Not many people survive a drop from a waterfall."

"You always have a plan," Sherlock reasoned. Morarity rolled his eyes.

He wiped his fingers on the sofa. Afterward he said to Sherlock, "I always do, Sherlock."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded Morarity. "What do you want from me?"

Morarity rolled his eyes and threw his legs up, resting them on the scuffed up table. He wiggled them as he crossed his right over his left. "What do I want?" he wondered. He put his index finger up to his chin as he tilts his head. "Oh, what does a well-dressed psychopath want from his "highly sophisticated sociopath" nemesis?"

He lowered his finger as he grinned at Sherlock. "His nemesis already knows what he wants," he points at Sherlock. "What _do_ I want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood there flabbergasted. In his mind, the cogs turned and then some. He knew what Morarity wanted and it couldn't be done. "You can't beat me," he answered Morarity. "You _won't_ beat me."

"I already beaten you, o' chap, that's why I'm here," Morarity pointed at himself. "I'm bloody bored, you half-wit!"

"You couldn't've beaten me," Sherlock shook his head. "I beat you!"

"Oh please, since when have you ever taken failure with grace? That was always your problem, Sherlock. You never once took a loss with grace. You always had to have it your way," Morarity sneered at him. "Of course, I should've _known_ my dear nemesis would never owe up to it."

"You want to beat me," Sherlock stared at him. Morarity slowly nodded. Sherlock shook his head in response, "Is that why you're here?"

"Beside the point, Sherlock, it saddens me I have to explain this to the supposed _Great Detective_. It pains me that this day and age the formalities of enemies are gone. They don't even _converse_ anymore, can you believe it? At least when I was tormenting you we got some conversations out of it. Even if I did have to take John hostage, at _least_ I discussed business with you. Often now, it's all shoot and paperwork later, it drives me _mad_ , well more than usual," Morarity shook his head in disappointment. "I miss a good conversation."

"Between Frank and you, I'm having none of it," Sherlock snapped at him. "I have six men dead and an open case!"

"Spare me the semantics, Sherlock. Actually, now that I think of it, you were never the type for semantics," Morarity spread his arms on the headrest. "Wonder what changed, the introduction of the Hobbit or her."

Sherlock grew frustrated with Morarity, real or not. He swung around and faced the fireplace, rubbing his throbbing head. "Remember that case, the first case you ever did with John?" Morarity suddenly brought up. Sherlock knew Morarity just wanted him to turn around and face him again. He didn't and Morarity and kept talking as he always done. "That man, the cabby, had an aneurysm didn't him? I always wondered what having one was like. I would imagine it'd be like having a ticking time bomb in your head. You don't know when you're going to die until that wee bubble bursts. Makes me wonder about you, like if you're one-step away from having your bubble burst. I wonder what'll happen when your bubble bursts, what would the little Hobbit and your so called acquaintances say about it when they see their dear o' charming chap bloomin' mad."

Morarity attempted to coarse Sherlock turn his head a little with him adding, "Though, I wonder if it hadn't already burst and this is the outcome. Come on, Sherlock, you can hardly ignore the rubbish on the Telly or your dear older brother. Just admit it; o' bean I'm striking nerves aren't I?"

"You hardly touched them," Sherlock said vehemently. Yet, it did not stop Morarity from trying something else to gain attention from Sherlock.

Morarity shifted in place as he then said to Sherlock, "So, what's it like, you know, having her beat you at your favorite game. Hurts doesn't it, come now, it's alright, I've lost plenty of games before and look at me. You must've been furious when she beat you. Did it cross your mind to strike her pride or stoop to her level?"

His mouth furrowed to a smile as he continued. "Or did it cross your mind to just rip her dainty little self apart and strew the pieces all around. What would it be like to see London's finest detectives fishing in the Thames or even the sewers for what remains. I dare say you are the type to keep reminders. Therefore, what is it then, her skull or that bosom of hers? No, not her bosom, you never cared for those did you. My, what plots twist if a discovery made that dear Sherlock Holmes was inclined to the company of men instead of the usual. It would certainly explain the Hobbit. I never pictured you for the type to like short men with fine lines, but c'est la vie. It's not my place to judge."

Sherlock certainly had enough, as he swung around, unusually red in the face. "Shut up, just shut up," he growled at Morarity. Morarity was merely amused as he comfortably crossed his leg. A crooked smile appeared on his face as he watched Sherlock's light blue eyes fixate on him. "Hit a nerve did I, Shirley?" Morarity tilted his head.

Sherlock only occasionally had a reason to pull out a gun, but for this case, it was more than personal at this point. In response to Morarity, Sherlock stomped toward where he kept his gun. With it in hand, Sherlock turned around to find Morarity there with his arms crossed.

Morarity wagged his finger at Sherlock, "You know what they say about using guns improperly, you might shoot your eyes out."

Sherlock held it to his head with intent known in his eyes. Morarity didn't flinch. He didn't even fluster. Chillingly, Morarity grabbed the gun and forced it against between his eyes. "So, the Great Detective resorts to murder. How far we've come," he smiled.

Sherlock hissed at him in response, "Shut up, just shut up!"

"Such lust for violence, how painfully boring, even for you," Morarity mocked. "You don't have the balls to do it."

"I'll do it," Sherlock growled.

Morarity released the gun and held out his hands outward. He then said, "Well, then just do it. I'm dead anyway, so what's a bullet to the membrane these days?"

Sherlock cocked the gun and Morarity waited. He waited with that grin on his face. That childish grin that sent chills up Sherlock's spine as he looked at Morarity dead in the eye. Morarity slowly mouthed out the words, "Do it."

Sherlock's finger went near the trigger and slightly touched it as he continued to stare at Morarity. Dead set in killing Morarity. Morarity knew it, too. His eyes lit up, like a child on Christmas morn as he stared at Sherlock.

"You know you want to," Morarity teased. "It's hardly a question anymore. You wanted me dead from the start. I kidnapping the Hobbit was just the starting point. You couldn't handle the thought of losing your dear friend. If I could make a point, you don't have to worry about losing the Hobbit. The internet folk surely kept up with their horrible retellings of cases with sprinkles of fiction with you two's endeavors in the bedroom if there was ever a bedroom mentioned in those stories. You don't even have to look, it's all there. Just type on the good o' search bar and you'll find that no matter what, people love what they don't know anything about. Just like you. The man with the plan who took the world by storm, only to be killed because he couldn't handle a single thought of losing his "wee buddy"."

Sherlock's mind struggled. If he did shoot Morarity, he'd win. If he didn't, Morarity would never leave him alone. It was a matter of politics in the Palace. To kill a man who claims he's dead and prove his point or allow him to roam the world freely to torment anyone he ever so pleased. Sherlock then decided.

He pointed and fired.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock's mind numbed as he stood there with smoke from his gun rising above the barrel. A sigh of relief was the only thing that came out of his mouth. Despite what he thought, Sherlock did not shoot him. Instead, an ignored vase on the side table was the one that got the bullet, not the apparition of the deceased Jim Morarity.

The only thing in the flat was Sherlock and his smoking gun. "I didn't shoot him," he muttered under his breath. "He didn't win, I won."

His mind snapped when a worried Mrs. Hudson burst her way into the flat. Sherlock came up with the only excuse that made sense. "It went off in my hand," he only said as he sat the gun down on the kitchen table. Yet, it was not the reason why Mrs. Hudson came upstairs. At least, not the only reason she came upstairs.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes, what in _hell_ are you doing up here, it's ten in the bloody morning!" Mrs. Hudson scorned him harshly. "First you've gone ragged and now you're shooting up your flat, again?"

Sherlock stood there bemused over the revelation that it was 10 AM in the morning.

How long was he standing there with a gun in his hand and how long did it take before he shot it?

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sheepishly apologized. Mrs. Hudson exhaled as she shook her head at him.

"Have you not heard me calling for you?" Mrs. Hudson asked him. "I've been calling your name for god knows how long. I was about to head upstairs when you fired that damn gun of yours!"

Sherlock took a deep breath and bowed his head. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Please, I did not mean to startle you. What is that you wanted?" he hobbled around the flat, trying desperately to get his bearings about the situation he dealt with. Mrs. Hudson did not help in the matter when she then told him, "Mary phoned me. She tried to get into contact with you, but God knows what you have been doing up here. John never made it home last night, she was wondering if you knew where he gone."

"John was at Oxford, testing our blood, hasn't she called Molly?" Sherlock blinked several times as he listened to Mrs. Hudson. He quickly stopped when Mrs. Hudson replied with, "She did, actually, but Molly said he left Oxford around midnight and hasn't called or texted her back."

Sherlock turned around sharply to look at Mrs. Hudson dead in the eye. "What do you mean?" Sherlock stared at her. Mrs. Hudson slowly repeated, "He left Oxford around midnight, no one's been able to find him."

"Did Molly say anything else; did John find anything in our bloods?" Sherlock hobbled around the flat, grabbing for his belongings, muttering under his breath. He overheard Mrs. Hudson, "She said it had the genetic markings of LSD."

"LSD," Sherlock stopped as he reached for his phone. LSD was something that never crossed his mind before; it surprised Sherlock that he never considered LSD. Of all things he failed to notice, LSD came shockingly close.

How could he not consider it beforehand, the evidence was clear as day, he had everything in his grasp to prove that he, John, and Alice drugged with the drug?

All slipped away when his flat burglarized and his key witnesses dead, to top it off, Lestrade in the hospital from a gunshot wound. All because Sherlock failed and it drove him up the wall that he failed to catch it in time.

Then, it came to him, something else that surfaced from the nether of his mind. Sherlock would have considered the possibility of LSD being the reason for this madness, the reason he seen his deceased nemesis, and the reason for Alice's behavior, had he not been drugged the first time.

When Alice first came to the flat and handed Sherlock the American bills, Sherlock was not wearing gloves; he never considered a reason to. Touching the bills allowed the LSD that the bills seeped with to absorb through his skin. Skin contact allowed the LSD to traverse his body and slowly affect it, because of Sherlock's high-strung metabolism and his own personal history; it took more than skin contact to cause the effects.

It took but a single trail of thought and twisting it around on itself and causing Sherlock to see and hear his deceased nemesis. Morarity was always dead, Sherlock came to accept the revelation, and his mind however would never let up. Fevered thoughts that it was a mere trick and that Morarity planned ahead, waiting for the right time to reappear trickled through Sherlock's mind until that was all he obsessed about.

It came to no surprise someone knew about Sherlock and Morarity's battle. It was in the paper, news, and on the Internet, anywhere that had a news outlet, their battle broadcasted. It also meant it broadcasted Morarity's suicide.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

He looked through his texts to find texts from Mary and found one message from John. A simple text with a photo attached, Sherlock looked at them. The text simply read as:

For why does the bell stop chiming?

The photo was that of a clock face. No details in the photo for Sherlock to pick apart, the only thing in the photo were the clock face, nothing else. As Sherlock stared at his phone, he noticed the dials fixed intentionally at 12 PM.

"Sherlock, what is it?" Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson. He slowly turned to her with a look on his face as it came to him. "Mrs. Hudson, he's got John," he said.

"Who has him, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson flinched and begun to worry. Sherlock looked back at the photo. He chewed on his lip as he said to her, "Frank."

"But, Frank's dead, isn't that what you said, right?" Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms, confused. Sherlock was confused himself, but figured it out.

He exhaled as he shoved his phone into his pocket and shuffled toward the door. Stopping at the threshold, he warned Mrs. Hudson. "Do not let anyone but my brother and the LPD inside," he said as he disappeared down the stairs and out the front door.

Dark clouds covered the skies, giving a look of eternal darkness across the city. The smell of rain was thick as Sherlock noted what today is. The anniversary of Frank Colton's sudden death, the day where it all ended, Sherlock will ensure it one way or another.

Hailing a taxi, Sherlock entered and as he did, his phone blipped. Upon inspecting it, it was an address. Sherlock relayed it to the cabby and the taxi drove away from the curb and interlinked with London traffic.

Sherlock kept looking out the window, watching as the cars and buses went by, and people with umbrellas over their heads. In his mind, he thought about what it all meant. He was not crazy. He was never crazy. The LSD was the reason for the nightmares, the bizarre events that transpired over the course of days. It all made sense, Sherlock was sure.

One could find LSD if one looked hard enough. It came in many forms but the most known version was the tablet that many users could suck down with their choice of liquor and the effects ranging from slow to immediate.

Yet, there was a question. How does one find LSD now?

LSD's uses slowly decreased over the years, due to the political fight against it and the rise of other drugs, and those users could no longer handle the effects.

If the LSD not bought on the street, then it only meant one thing. If someone had the knack and the lab, they could make their own LSD and play with it to their hearts content. Exactly, what he has been doing for so long.

Sherlock texted Donovan and Anderson, imploring them both to look into pharmaceutical thefts, even if someone had a lab they could not get the ingredients from a shop. He condensed the ingredients used for LSD for them to understand while suggesting them to look into any recent breakouts from mental institutions.

Sherlock remembered the letters found at Patrick's flat. Patrick knew something that neither Sherlock nor Alice did because of it. He was under effects from the LSD, slow and steady this time around. He was getting close and hitting two birds with one stone used him to lure Alice to Frank's mock grave.

Frank's body was there where Patrick said, but someone stole it. Sherlock never gave thought until now; the "coffin" was newer. If it had been thirty some odd years with weather and elements, the coffin would have rotted and the preserved stench wafting from it. Sherwood's soil ensured that Frank's rotted body would still be there in its skeletal entirely, but not this scenario.

"I should've known," Sherlock whispered to himself as the taxi stopped at the last stretch of road before it led into the foliage. Sherlock glanced past the seats and saw that the foliage blocked the mud path deep into the enclave.

"Is this the address?" Sherlock inquired. The cabby replied with, "It used to be. Don't know how anyone remembers it; it's been too long since it was decommissioned."

Sherlock instructed the cabby to remain, giving him half the fare before leaving the taxi and walking slowly into the foliage.

Why does the bell ring in noon?

Sherlock checked his phone. It was almost noon. As he stuffed his phone back into his pocket, he noticed a set of footprints, male, size 12. Sherlock was not the only one who came through here.

Sherlock continued into the foliage as the mud path continued to snake around the enclave until he came across the abandoned St. Dismas Cathedral. Abandoned and forgotten due to years of negligence, the cathedral never saw the light of day as the enclave surrounded it. There were talks regarding the cathedral's fate, but they fell through and the cathedral remained. The road that led to it no longer existed. Mud from the rain spread over the pavement and after years became permanent.

Vines, dead and alive, covered the cathedral as Sherlock approached the two large doors. Glancing around, Sherlock listened to the wildlife that made home in the enclave, before he finally opened the doors revealing the decayed innards of the cathedral.

The pews rotted from water damage from the holes in the ceiling and the broken stain glass windows. Weeds grew from the broken stones as dirt layered near the walls. On the podium where the Father would commence services Sherlock found a cheap burner phone, resting carefully where Sherlock would see it. Kneeling down beside the burner phone, Sherlock picked it up.

Upon doing so, it rung with a blocked number, Sherlock held it up to his ear. On the other end, he heard a voice. Male, mid-thirties, and it sent chills down his spine when he heard it.

"For why did the bell stop chiming?" he asked Sherlock. "For why did stop chiming at noon?"

"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded. "I demand to know where he is!"

Sherlock heard shuffling noises on the other end before hearing a familiar voice.

"Sherlock," cried John on the other end. "Help me; it's coming to get me!"

Sherlock froze with horror on his face as he heard his colleague screaming mad on the other end. Screaming at the plague doctor that slowly came toward him with a large knife, pleading for his life and pleading for Sherlock to come save him.

"Sad really," it quickly changed back to the culprit. "He fell to it as easily as the chums did when I spread those American dollars."

"There was no London Crow," Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He heard laughter amid John flaying his arms around, knocking into things.

"Ah, well, you know Mr. Holmes, people these days just don't believe in the unknown anymore. If they do, they are loonies about it. I hate the loonies, do you?" Sherlock heard him. He then shouted at John, "If you don't keep your horror shows down, I will gladly shove a syringe of it up your _arse_!"

"Leave him alone," Sherlock snarled. He heard more laughter.

"And why should I?" balked the man. Sherlock growled.

In response, Sherlock said, "Because I know who you are."

"Do you?" the man chuckled. "Do you really know who I am?"

"I do," Sherlock affirmed.

He heard chuckling as the man cocked a simple revolver.

"You say you know me, but do you really know yourself?" the man asked Sherlock. "The way I see it, you been getting crazy these last few days. Last, I heard you were shooting up your flat. Shooting an innocent vase that had no quarry with you that sound mighty crazed, even for you Sherlock. Actually, you are the calmest of all people I have afflicted. Not surprised, really, your medical reports are astonishing when you look at them properly. Narcotics must be a treat for you."

"What do you want, you already killed Alice," Sherlock hissed. "What more do you want?"

"You know as well as I do what I want," he heard back. He heard the revolver clicking as the magazine rotated. "Do you know what you want?"

"Let John go!" Sherlock screamed into the phone. He heard laughter as John rolled around on the ground, crying. He then heard, "You have two minutes, detective. If you answer it properly, I might only graze an ear."

Sherlock stood there as his eyes moved around the cathedral. He heard, "You are the Great Detective, aren't you?"

Sherlock scrambled for an answer. He muttered under his breath as his light blue eyes glided throughout the decaying cathedral.

For why did the bell stop chiming?

Sherlock's heartbeat picked up as he struggled to come up with a definitive answer. His eyes stopped when he came across some tied rope abandoned by the walls. Meant to hoist statues of Christ and other saints, it been forgotten. There was a noose at the end of the rope, small and nondescript.

In days of yore, those hung often hung in correspondence with the church bells. They rang during certain points of the day and events, but the answer to the riddle came to an answer.

"He hung at noon!" Sherlock quickly shouted into the receiver. He heard laughter and, "Too late, Mr. Holmes, by a mere thirteen seconds."

Sherlock almost went into panic mode when he heard a gunshot. Thankfully, it was not toward John, but at a wall, a warning shot.

"Just so you know that I'm serious. Look, I get it; he is the only one who understood you when others did not. That is all fun and all, but he is starting a family with Mary. What about you, what are you doing with your little slice of heaven?" he heard him say. "Look, it's obvious what's going to happen. He is going to be a father and cannot come and save your arse when you done something stupid. Eventually, he will leave you for his family. Sure, you could always visit, but Mary is not going to want you bringing work into their home. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but the cards are stacked against you."

"You seem to care a great deal for someone who kidnapped and murdered," Sherlock sneered. He heard chuckling as he heard a chair brought up. In the background, John muttered things to himself as he gone into fetal position.

In response he heard, "I did what I have to do, just like you. Even if a few people have to die and a few others had to drug out of their minds, it is all business. As for you, I honestly do not give a damn about you, your career, or your life history. I have seen this happen before, unbelievably. With no real friends to call upon and families all but gone, you work yourself tirelessly to find some sort of meaning in your pathetic life."

"So what happens if I meet someone?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What if they understood my position?"

"Then work comes in between you two. You cannot get away from work, even at home. You tried to find time to spend with them, but work encroaches on it. Eventually, they leave in heartbreak and bitterness, because it consumes you. In their haste, they forgot to tell you the one important thing that could've changed everything," Sherlock heard pain in his voice. "Eventually they'll settle down somewhere nice, far from London, and try to eke out a living with small-time jobs. Yet, the bills get high and they cannot afford to pay anymore, so they'll lose their only home and have to live on the streets. You learn so many things on the streets when society turns its back on you."

It all made sense to Sherlock now.

Sherlock snapped back when he heard, "So, now you know what I want?"

"You wanted the people who took him away to pay," Sherlock summed.

"Alice and the HA people never saw it coming. I did have to put on an act to get near and around them. I also had to pretend I was a loony to get some of the things I needed. It wasn't hard doing, all I had to do was set fire to a constable's house," the man sighed as Sherlock overheard the rattling of glass and a bottle, the sound of a drink being poured as the man shouted at John to keep quiet. "You know how it goes, they toss you in and you shuffle around while doctors poke you with needles. Once I broke out, I had to rummage through the old police station and find some of Alice's things. Amongst them was his old badge. Of course, it was different when I found it. I actually cracked it myself. I am sure because you work with the LPD you know the tradition that accompanies the discipline following the discovery that an officer of the law broke conduct or committed a heinous act. When an officer disowned, they hold a mock ceremony. In this ceremony, an appointed man or woman cracks the badge right through the center. They then show this cracked badge on the walls of their department as a warning and reminder. It's quite fascinating."

As Alice said to Sherlock, Frank led a private life. He always worked and never had time for anything else. Even then, no one really knew what he was doing when he was not working. Whom he met with or where he went, it was a mystery. Now it was all clear for Sherlock.

The timeline lined up. His birth corresponded around the time Frank worked to bring down the Hilton Association and Alice's eventual betrayal. Frank met a woman, her identity unknown to Sherlock; it appeared that while Frank genuinely cared for her, work prevented him from leaving. On days when he was not working, he spent a great deal with her, eventually leading to the conception of Frank's only child.

"Should I call you junior, is it proper?" Sherlock asked him. "Or would you prefer something else?"

"Junior's reserved for family, do call me Frank, though," he heard.

Sherlock nodded before saying, "You wanted Alice to find me. You wanted me to solve this case. The reason was so simple; you knew eventually I'd bring him back to where your father was buried."

"Correct," Frank, grinned as he checked on John who sobbed quietly in a corner. "And I suppose you're going to ask me how I knew where he was buried."

"Enlighten me," Sherlock only said.

Frank chuckled as he said, "Me mum was always quiet about him. You know how it goes with these things. She did not mention anything about his work or what he did, not even, how he died. I reckoned that she was simply trying to protect me, mother's guilt. It did not take long before I found what I wanted to know. Frank went missing, didn't come back to his flat, grandma dies from a heart attack in her sleep, and the lovely Galahad Police Department had no idea where he gone or where to even find him. His belongings sold because he had no next of kin because he never brought up me mum or me. Things get quiet. I found out where he was buried by a former associate of his, forget his name, but all I done was blow powder into his face and he told me many things. Thanks to him, I found Patrick. Used his religion against him and lo and behold I got my father's body back."

Frank set fire to a constable's house, likely someone Alice knew; just they would place him into a mental institution. There he stole what he needed to go after the rest of those responsible. When he had enough, he broke out, changed his name, and hid amongst the crowds. With his street knowledge, he knew how to lure people with his drugs. That was how he got to Wallace and the others. Frank took the American dollars Wallace had and laced them with LSD. Frank gave Wallace the LSD to torment Alice. LSD was how Frank managed to murder his loose ends. It also explained Lestrade. Frank placed the anonymous tip, lured Lestrade, and when he was under the effects of the LSD, Frank took the translations.

"What was in the journal, Alice said your penmanship was horrendous," Sherlock questioned him. Frank's answer was a simple one at that.

"I made it when I was in the loony bins, thought it added to the charade. In actuality, I cannot write Gaelic well. Me mum forced jolly o' English on me. So I've been learning it as I went," Frank shrugged as he looked at John rocking back and forth.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He demanded. "Where is John, I answered your riddle, tell me where he is!" he shouted into the phone.

"No need to shout, good sir," Frank rolled his eyes as he cocked a different gun. "Fair is fair, you answered my riddle, 'tis good showmanship if I keep my word. Do know if you can hear this, it'll be your clue."

It was a shotgun and Sherlock listened.

The shotgun was loud on the speaker and faintly Sherlock heard it in the distance. Another shot and Sherlock knew where to go from there. The phone call ended and Sherlock ran towards the direction of the shotgun.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock only heard his heart beating against his chest as he ran toward where he heard the shotgun. His feet sunk into the mud from the rain, almost causing him to trip, fall onto fallen branches, before he dragged them from the depths, and continued to run. Eventually, he stopped at a clearing and stared at the ground. There were two sets of footprints, Frank's and John, leading into the shrubbery.

Sherlock followed the footprints to find a simple wooden shack, rotted from years gone by, and looked to been built around the same time as the church. Sherlock hurried toward it, stopping at a hole, and looked inside.

Huddled in a corner, with his arms over his head, John's eyes tightly shut as he muttered incoherently. Sherlock called to him. "John, it's me!" he called. "I'm here!"

"Leave me alone, just leave me alone," John muttered in a panicked voice, refusing to open his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock ran to the rotted door and kicked it in. It startled John, but Sherlock had no time. Upon entering the shack, Sherlock knelt beside John and lightly touched him. "John, it's me, Sherlock!" Sherlock said slowly for John. John, scared, attempted to flay his arms against Sherlock, muttering. "Please, please, leave me alone," he wailed.

Frank did more than force LSD on John, but while John remained under its effects, Frank frightened him. Using his knowledge, Frank carefully created his threats to cause maximum damage, it involved Mary, it involved John's child, and it involved everyone John ever cared. It reduced the usually tact, well-mannered man, into a blubbering lump who so scared to open his eyes, tried to flay his arms against Sherlock.

Sherlock realized that John, unlike him, never dealt with narcotics. In truth, though he was a doctor, John never built up immunity to the usual suspects nor dabbled with them creatively. It was always Sherlock, Sherlock merely hallucinated and firing a round was his first instance of a hallucination bleeding into reality. John, a lightweight by all standards, could not handle the dose Frank gave him, even if Frank meticulously measured it.

Seeing John sobbing uncontrollably made his blood boil, though Frank kept his word, it did not stop Sherlock from getting ideas on what to do with him when he finally reached the infamous London Crow.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock knew his options were limited.

For now, he was only interested in helping John. Trying to talk to him did not work; Sherlock could not help him up without John flaying his arms around, until Sherlock decided on a way to snap John back into reality.

A simple slap, not hard that it would leave a swollen bruise, but not soft, that could be considered a tap, across John's face when he lowered his arms, did the trick. John's dark eyes opened so quick, Sherlock had trouble noticing until John blinked several times, releasing trapped tears from the tear ducts.

"What, where the…" John muttered as he glimpsed around the shack. "Where am I?"

"John, you're safe," Sherlock comforted him as he held a hand out. "You're safe, now."

John blinked as he gave a quizzical look in return. "Please, please don't hit me again," he rubbed his eyes.

Sherlock flinched and apologized. "I had to stop you, you were going mad," he explained to John as he helped him up from the ground. John hobbled as he glanced around the shack, on the table where Frank sat; there was the phone he used to communicate with Sherlock. No guns in the shack, no spent shells either, Frank took them when he fled after alerting Sherlock on the whereabouts of John.

"Where in God's name, am I?" John questioned as Sherlock held onto his arm, allowing him to walk slowly out of the shack and into the woods.

Sherlock shrugged, "Some woods."

It took almost two hours before they reached the road where leaning on his trusty umbrella, the impeccable but often haughty, Mycroft Holmes. Behind him a silver Mercedes Benz hummed, inside a driver waiting for Mycroft's orders.

Sherlock wondered how his brother became involved, he was always good about keeping things from his brother, it was a skill. Not now, it looked as if Mycroft had many things to say to Sherlock, starting from the top with his nonchalant greeting. "Good evening, little brother," he eyed Sherlock. His brown eyes moved toward John as he barely held his head up

Sherlock gritted his teeth; he did not want his brother involved by any means. However, as it stood, it helped to have some outside help once a while, considering that Sherlock still had the effects of LSD in his body. As much as the brothers' opinions of one another are, as one would expect, they needed each other more than anything did.

"How did you find us?" Sherlock asked him, bemused.

Mycroft shook his head; with his free hand, he wagged his finger at his little brother. "I am highly disappointed with you, little brother," he scorned Sherlock. "Of all things you've done over the years, this topples the tower. I'm grateful to intervene before you hurt yourself, most fortunate I came when I did, John could've been hurt far worse."

"Thank you for your concerns, now tell me, how did you find me?" Sherlock eyed his brother. Mycroft told him.

"A little bird told me the happenings going on. Lestrade in the hospital, the unfortunate deaths, and the kidnapping of one John Watson," Mycroft eyed back. "Would you care to explain to me why you didn't come to me, little brother? Did you assume I'd step in and keep you away from your little chase?"

"I had everything under control," Sherlock asserted as he helped John into the Mercedes. As John sat in his seat comfortably, both Mycroft and Sherlock gave each other looks. The looks equated to the looks given by those under the banner of sibling rivalry. Though it could be said though they loathed each other's existence day in and day out, when it came down to it, the brothers were willing to help each other when the time came. It could be also said that when one brother is hurt, the other will come looking and not to have a polite chat with the offender.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes on Sherlock as he closed the door. He shook his head in dismay at his little brother's assertion that everything was fine, that he did not need Mycroft's undivided help.

"Little brother, nothing you're doing is in "control". I'm fortunate to step in when I did, I feared you're going down a rabbit hole, one you won't come out of," he asserted while Sherlock crossed his arms, tilting his head as he listened to Mycroft.

Sherlock knew he could not get rid of Mycroft easily. Once his foot was in the door, nothing short of a hatchet will get rid of it, and that was a proven fact as history showed between several cases where Mycroft insisted becoming involved, despite Sherlock's objections. As it stood, Sherlock did not have much in the way of saying no.

"How'd you find me?" Sherlock repeated his earlier question as Mycroft entered the front passenger seat.

Before the car door shut closed, Mycroft replied with, "It appears your little friend has caused problems for those in higher powers, as well."

Entering the Mercedes, Sherlock sat quietly as it pulled from the curb. John slept soundly in his seat, resting his head against the side window. Mycroft broke the silence by asking Sherlock, "Mrs. Hudson tells me that you shot a vase this morning. She also said you've been on edge recently; care to explain this to me, little brother?"

"I have nothing to say," Sherlock insisted as his light blue eyes moved to look out his side of the window. Mycroft persisted, as he was prone to doing. "You're fortunate you didn't hurt yourself with that gun. Why didn't you call me, ask me to assist with your investigation, if you did Alice might've still been alive," Mycroft shook his head at Sherlock. "Why must you treat your investigations as mere races, you won't stop until the end, God forbid someone tells you to stop before you tear apart your frail muscles?"

It finally hit Sherlock, instead of the sharp burning sensation that incurred from a bullet in his side; it came from an unlikely place. The things Frank and Morarity said to him during his drug-induced daze, the things that made no sense until now. It finally came together and painted the truth for Sherlock.

There was truth in those words, painful, but true; he had always done things alone. Despite having friends and family at his side, he insisted on doing everything alone, because he could not trust they do it properly. He pushed them all away when it came down to it. Only when death is certain, he would call upon them.

It crossed Sherlock's mind that he endangered them more than anything did and yet they continued to help, even when he made it aware the dangers ahead.

However, subconsciously, he wanted them to help. If they said no, he tried everything in his power to coerce them into helping, even if it meant enduring injuries and almost dying in certain situations. He could not bear to do this all alone, yet he knew the truth.

John will not be around forever, he had a child now. Mary, bless her soul, will not allow him to keep running off when Sherlock called. Then, there was fear Sherlock's antics might cause an enemy to track John down and God only knows what an sociopath would do to a dear friend and his family when they want Sherlock to suffer.

It made sense in the end of it all. Sherlock was afraid of being alone.

Frank picked him apart, found that flaw, and exploited it. Used it to get him in a most vulnerable state of mind, casting doubts, causing Sherlock to go mad with fear and hate, the LSD was tip of the iceberg. Frank knew about Morarity and his bid against Sherlock, knew what the hostilities between them were about, and with his drugs made Sherlock paranoid. He played Sherlock against himself, made him an utter fool, all without physically appearing before him.

"It pains me that I have to treat you like a child, little brother. You should know that our dear parents have been asking about you since they heard on the radio that Lestrade is in the hospital for a gunshot. I have been kind enough to lure them away from the truth, but if you keep this up, there is no chance I can keep up this charade any longer. Moreover, I know you, little brother; you will have no excuses once mother and father come to visit you in the hospital. What do you think they'll say to me, what do you think I'll say to them?" Sherlock snapped back to hear his brother ranting. He was angry that Sherlock kept him out of the loop and forced his hand and it showed. "You should be thankful he let John live, but from then on, you will listen to me. John already suffered enough for the time being, he will be in a hospital, armed guards and the works, until he is fit to return to Mary. Until we catch our dear friend, John and Mary will have round the clock security personnel checking in on them. As for you, you are not fit to continue this investigation. Do not argue with me, little brother, I have no patience or time for your arguments. Your body needs to be flushed out; it cannot handle another dose of LSD."

Sherlock, having no arguments of his own, merely replied with, "Fine. How'd you know I was in Sherwood?"

"Their head nurse called me because she recognized you. Told me that you were in a hole somewhere out in the woods, bugged eyed and everything, blathering in your mobile. Thankfully, for yours and mother's sake, I convinced them not to share the fact you had LSD in your blood with the Sherwood police. They would hold you indefinitely until trial, as you are aware the drug is illegal with mandatory sentencing. How long would you reckon it'd take to prove you weren't shooting up in a shanty shack somewhere?" Mycroft crossed his arms. "I followed the breadcrumbs until I found you here. Do not make me do it again, I will not have patience the next time you endanger yourself and John. Be thankful I'm inclined to help, little brother, not many people would do the same."

At this part, Sherlock would fight his brother over his well-being. He would use all the arguments he could drum in bid to continue his investigation, all the excuses and even blackmail if it came to that, but none formulated in his mind. He was tired, fatigued, the LSD put strain on his mind and ever since he began this investigation, he ran himself ragged.

There was the fact several people died and the perpetrator not found, leading to John's kidnap and drugged with LSD.

"Now, little brother, will you cause problems at the hospital?" Sherlock snapped back to see Mycroft eying him. With his hand, Sherlock half-heartedly waved it, mumbling, "No."

In three hours' time, the Mercedes pulled up to St. Thomas. Two wheelchairs waited for Sherlock and John as the passenger doors opened. Nurses carried John carefully to his wheelchair as Sherlock merely sat squarely in his, no longer inclined to bicker. As Sherlock sat in his wheelchair, he noticed in the corner of his eyes a black 1998-9 Ford Escort sitting at the civilian curb, its license plate read 70858, highly unusual. On who owned the Ford, Sherlock bound to find out as his and John's wheelchairs pushed toward the entrance. The automatic doors slid open and a blast of cool air welcomed them as nurses pushed the wheelchairs through the main area.

Man and women of various ages sat in the plump chairs, waiting for their turns, some playing on their mobiles and those preferring to read magazines from the nearby stand.

Mycroft walked in front of the wheelchairs and one of the doctors standing near the counter as he received a clipboard by a nurse noticed him.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," greeted the doctor as he smiled. Mycroft returned the greeting as the doctor, now known as Doctor Burton, circled Sherlock and John, eying them.

"How do you feel, Mr. Holmes?" Doctor Burton asked Sherlock as he readied to write down everything said to him.

Sherlock always and will always continue to hate answering medical questions. Even as a young lad, he detested getting his flu shots and being weighed yearly before school started. It was the same every time. Either he was overweight by a stone or underweight by a pebble. Then when he grew older, more often than not, doctors continued to press him for information surrounding what he did for a living. The questions regarding his love life, or lack thereof, made Sherlock's skin crawl with hatred.

One doctor even went so far as to press him if he done anything to remedy the lack of physical contact. Suffice to say, Sherlock exposed the doctor as a philanderer who cheated on his wife with the nurses. Sherlock received a yearly post card from the wife after the revelation.

Thankfully, Doctor Burton never bothered with those questions. Instead, he rightly stuck with the important ones. By the time they got to their room, Doctor Burton concluded that Sherlock had to remain on the premises for at most ten days. Five for the detoxing and five for observation, there was a chance he could hold longer if necessary, which Sherlock begrudgingly agreed to.

Arriving to their room, nurses carried John to his bed and Sherlock simply walked to his. On the beds a change of sterile clothes waited for them, light blue pair of pants and shirt neatly folded. Sherlock gazed at his pair of clothes before glancing at Mycroft who spoke to Doctor Burton about treatment plans. When Mycroft turned his head, he caught the glance, and shook his head in response.

Sherlock went into the bathroom with his change of clothes and came out with a provided bag with his worn clothes inside. One of the nurses took the bag and left the room.

Already changed into his hospital clothes, John relaxed on his bed as he blinked slowly. A saline drip already in his arm as a nurse overlooked him. Confirming the saline drip did not leak or cause John discomfort, the nurse left the room, allowing Mycroft and Sherlock to converse in private.

Sherlock shuffled toward his brother. Mycroft had that look on his face when he found something funny and was not telling it. Sherlock stared at him.

"My clothes were fine," Sherlock objected to the light blue stripped attire. Mycroft rolled his eyes at this. He interjected with, "I convinced them to have you wear those rather the bare bottom smocks. Would you rather run around the hospital with your _arse_ exposed, it is more fitting now I think about it."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and accepted it for what it was worth. Either this or those itchy smocks exposed his bottom. If Sherlock had his way he would certainly wear the clothes he came into the hospital with. However, for now, Sherlock will stand to wear this attire until his release from the hospital.

"If it pleases you, little brother, I did contact the agent tasked in the case to meet us here," Mycroft told him as he sat on his bed. "He ought to be here soon."

"How'd he turn up?" Sherlock asked Mycroft. Mycroft watched as his little brother begin to wiggle his toes, popping noises causing him to cringe. Shaking his head in disgust, Mycroft explained. "He turned up while I was in another meeting. Asked me if I heard anything going on in London, it appears that someone drugged an important government official and stole copious amounts of money from his bank account as well as several of his privately owned weapons. When they found him, he was in his laundry basket. He claimed the London Crow attacked him," Mycroft saw interest in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock listened as he popped his toes. He stopped after Mycroft finished and stared. "Haven't heard that," he commented on the matter. Often his brother told him things, but anything of that nature he would expected a news segment on the radio or on the television. If not that, then he'd figure it out before anyone bothered.

"He had remnants of a certain powdery drug on his trousers; I rather think they didn't want that tidbit to get out to the general public. The only reason they knew it was LSD was testing his blood during the detoxing process," Mycroft continued. "Someone mixed it in before they gave it to him."

"Why target him, of all people?" Sherlock questioned. There were plenty of reasons to target someone of power, no shortage of questionable motives. All which mattered in the end that had the wit to do it. He heard Mycroft's response as he crossed his arms and sat back on his bed, pondering. "If I knew, I'd certainly tell you. For now, I have nothing, likely they'll keep it that way," Mycroft sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes. "They agreed to tell me that he had a nasty habit and that was how the LSD got to him."

Money often had a way of making people turn the other cheek. As there is loyalty, treachery was always at an arm's reach. An overworked guard sick of his pitiful wage decides to end the life of his employer by either overlooking poor quality drugs or ensuring that his employer's drugs had an extra kick. The perfect crime, if done proper, but as all known there is no such thing as a perfect crime, far too often people become haughty about their crimes and often end up caught because of it.

"So, he had a drug habit. Who else knew about it or is that off the table?" Sherlock waved his hand at his brother who stood beside the bed. Mycroft overlooked his brother and told him something that he completely forgotten, "They set out to interrogate his dealers, however one had died yesterday from a combination of cocaine and slit wrists, an apparent suicide. They identified him this morning, as one Torres Stokes, brother to late Russel Stokes."

Sherlock quickly rose from his bed and looked at Mycroft. "Did they find LSD in his blood, too?" He gestured with his hands. Mycroft shook his head, leaving Sherlock confused.

Days ago, Sherlock met with Torres over the whereabouts of Russel. During the course of the conversation, it became apparent that Torres was frightened about something but would not tell Sherlock, for whatever reason. Yet, when he talked, he kept looking around the room, as if he was afraid of listened on by some unknown force.

"No, hence the apparent suicide," Mycroft answered.

Sherlock grimaced, what reason could Torres hold to end his own life. Perhaps Frank was just as dangerous as Morarity was and Torres feared what Frank was capable of doing. Sherlock attempted to ponder over Torres' apparent suicide, but stopped just as a man entered the room, holding a bag of M&M's in his right hand.

"I'm terribly sorry for the delay," he apologized to them. "My blood sugar was low, so I needed some sweets."

Greased hair combed back, the gel bought from a drug store, but lacked the scent that most if not all hair gel had. Pale skin, paler than Sherlock's skin, as the agent talked Sherlock noticed faint black veins popping in certain areas of his face and neck. His teeth were pristine white and perfectly aligned, almost like dentures the more Sherlock looked at them.

The agent wore a simple black suit, gotten for cheap from a secondhand store. In his left ear a white, see through earpiece with coil leading down into his inner shirt. His sunglasses so dark, Sherlock could not see his eyes. His accent was strange, something Sherlock never heard of. It was a cross between posh English and southern French accent, peculiar indeed.

When the man spoke, it was even more peculiar. He accented certain syllables properly, but sometimes he over emphasized them, sometimes he had a lisp before it disappeared. Slow and monotonous, it matched his personality. He spoke in such a way Sherlock never heard it before.

"It is alright, we were just talking," Mycroft explained to him. He turned to Sherlock and introduced each other. "Sherlock, this is Agent Jones. Agent Jones, this is Sherlock, we talked about him over the phone," Mycroft gestured with his hand.

Agent Jones bowed his head in gesture as he stuffed the bag into his coat pocket. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes, I'm told you've had a hectic week," he said to him. He over emphasized on the words "evening", "had", and "hectic" his lisp returned as he stuttered over "Mr. Holmes".

Sherlock crossed his arms, infuriated at the choice of Agent Jones' words.

"Hectic isn't the word I'd use. Men are dead, our detective inspector is in the hospital, and my assistant is lucky to suffer only migraines," Sherlock lashed at Agent Jones. Agent Jones did not react to Sherlock's outburst, instead he bowed his head again. "My fault, Mr. Holmes, forgive me for my lack of compassion," he apologized. Over emphasizing on 'lack' and 'compassion', pronouncing compassion with an extended 's' sound, almost hissing like a snake as he continued to speak to Sherlock. He paused momentary when saying the last half of the sentence, as if thinking about what to say or having trouble piecing together words.

"Calm down, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed at him. He turned to Agent Jones. "Forgive my brother's outburst," he apologized.

Agent Jones shook his head. He said to Mycroft, "No need to apologize, he meant well. It was my fault for my poor choice of words."

He over emphasized "apologize" overextending the 'z', he gave the 't' in "meant" a 'd' sound, almost if he said mend. Fault sounded like fall and for sounded like fir. He overemphasized on "choi" in choice. Words sounding like the German pronunciation.

Agent Jones told them what he knew about Frank. "I believe we have a common problem, Mr. Holmes," he began. "It appears that a crazed man believes he was wronged, by the world and those apparent. He went after our mutual friend as he had ties to the Hilton Association; it appeared he paid heavily for his drugs. Such highly publicized name cannot be known, as you are aware, and so he pushed for the execution of Frank Colton."

Sherlock listened to Agent Jones as he spoke. He overemphasized on words with 's' and paused at certain parts of his sentences. When he finished speaking, Sherlock asked him.

"Who else has he gone after?" Sherlock eyed Agent Jones. His movement was stiff and unnatural, something Sherlock never seen before. Agent Jones tilted his head at Sherlock, slow and methodical.

"If it serves you, Mr. Holmes, I've brought a list of those he targeted. Mind you, some had to be expunged for the time being," tilting his head back Agent Jones reached into his jacket's inner pocket and brought out thick folded papers, stapled, and handed them to Sherlock.

Sherlock went through the list, thus far there were names he never heard before he gotten to names he did. It appeared Frank been doing this for quite some time, starting around age eighteen. Considering his knowledge, he avoided capture with his drugs, spread them on the street and told a story to drive people wild. The police could not apprehend him if they had to worry about those afflicted with the likes of LSD. If anyone gotten close to him, they were on the list, he was effective in his rampage.

"How could he evade the police, how could no one capture him, he left a trail of bodies and all you had to do was look!" Sherlock could not grasp what he read. "He allowed himself to be institutionalized, he told me this himself!"

"We know only what we could dredge up," Agent Jones held a hand up. "We only know so much, Mr. Holmes. He held many names, it was most fortunate we found a link in the homicides."

With Mycroft staring at him, Sherlock calmed down.

He asked, "How did you find the link?"

"We cross referenced, of course. It was quite laborious; fortunately, we came to a sound conclusion. They either knew one another or had a hand in the HA's drugs trade," Agent Jones answered. "We tracked the drugs to find they've been leaving Galahad and entering surrounding counties. Some found their way to London, where it was stowed in a shipment sent to Sinclair Riverside."

It made sense now. Frank manufactured his LSD using the drugs HA shilled. As the saying went, he was giving them a taste of their own medicine, whether they liked it or not. Given the time, by now those drugs are expired. Frank knew this, he did not care, and he wanted them to feel the pain of their own medicine.

It seemed Sherlock and John got off lucky, Frank did not use that concoction on them, either he ran out or he reserved it for only those who he perceived as deserving.

"We think because of your proximity, he might attempt to end your life," Agent Jones told Sherlock as he finished reading the names. When he was done, Agent Jones retrieved the pages from him. As he stuffed it into his inner suit pocket, Agent Jones mentioned to Sherlock. "We found your medical records in one of his hideouts. Not the originals, do not worry, but it appeared they dated around 2010, does this mean anything to you, Mr. Holmes?"

2010, that was the year John met Sherlock and when the two forged an strange yet interesting friendship. It was also the year Sherlock met his nemesis, Morarity.

"It does what of it?" Sherlock stared at Agent Jones.

Agent Jones tilted his head again as he said, "We found a shrine to a Jim Morarity nearby; perhaps Frank idolized Morarity just before his death. Perhaps he holds you squarely responsible for it, we do not know."

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at Agent Jones. "Suppose you might tell us how he gotten his medical records?" Mycroft eyed him. Agent Jones did not flinch, he remained calm and stoic, his monotonous voice remained stagnant. "We believe for a short time they corresponded. Reasons why, I dread we will not know, as the aforementioned. There is speculation that Mr. Morarity assisted Frank with his rampage," his answer was strange, but given what the brothers knew about the late Morarity, anything was possible.

Suppose Morarity initiated a quid pro quo with Frank. For information regarding Sherlock, Morarity helped Frank with his problems. It explained how people who held no qualifications for their positions received them so easily, Morarity always told Sherlock how many cookie jars he had his hands in, and how many he trapped.

Doctor Burton came in and looked at Agent Jones and Mycroft. "I'm sorry to put a stop to your visitation, but visiting hours are over. You have to leave," he said to them. Mycroft turned to Sherlock.

"Do not cause any troubles, little brother," Mycroft warned as he and Agent Jones exited the room, following Doctor Burton. The door closed behind them and Sherlock sat there with his arms crossed.

If Frank and Morarity knew each other, then how did Sherlock overlook this?

Suppose Morarity saw no reason in giving Sherlock all the details, he could have considered Frank a loose cannon. Alternatively, Morarity saw something in Frank that reminded him of him. Morarity always had a twinge of narcissism, even when he never admitted it.

"It explains everything," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Sherlock had nothing to do but look through his website on his phone. His eyes became heavy and he soon fell asleep. His mind slowly worked to piece itself back together from the LSD episodes, yet braced for further contact.


	28. Chapter 28

In the early hours of the morning, Sherlock and John slept soundly in their respected cots. Barely a light coming through the windows as curtains blocked out much of the moonlight.

Sherlock turned his head gently to his right as he lightly snored. Nearby, John snored loudly as he muttered incoherent things to himself as he turned over on his side.

As Sherlock unconsciously turned his body to the left, facing the nightstand next to him, the door to their room creaked as it slowly opened.

Muddled footsteps, quiet that none of them heard, neared their cots. The footsteps neared Sherlock's cot first and as a shadowed figure stood beside Sherlock's cot, he slowly opened his eyes partially.

No matter how much he tried, Sherlock could not move an inch of his muscles. It felt like he gone into sleep paralysis. Unable to do anything, Sherlock watched as the shadowed figured picked up his left hand and done something to it before it rested his hand where it was previously. Whatever the shadowed figure done, Sherlock could not see as his eyes froze in place. He heard the figure move toward John's cot next.

Sherlock did not know what the figure was doing, but in a minute afterward, the figure emitted a crunching sound as it exited the room. The smell wafted to Sherlock and smelt rather sweet, but due to his sullen senses, Sherlock could not tell what it was precisely.

Before Sherlock could even think, his mind and body slowly returned to sleep against his will until morning.

The light bled through the curtains, lighting up the room as Sherlock slowly opened his eyes again and found he could move them.

Slowly his light blue eyes moved around the room. The light blinded them, but they slowly got used to it. Sherlock's eyes stopped at his left hand resting on his chest and slowly he lifted it up to study his palm.

His memory sharp as tacks, Sherlock studied every inch of his palm, every curve and old scars he incurred throughout the years.

Unsurprisingly, he did not find anything on his palm. When he tried to remember the events, his memory faltered there.

The only thing that came up was the events from last night when he spoke with his brother. That was it, nothing else came from that, no matter how much Sherlock tried.

"Bloody hell, I can't remember last night," Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he pushed up from the bed and felt the blood rushing down from his head.

He turned his head toward John's cot and found him gone. The cot, neatly made for the next patient, looked as if it never been in use.

Alarms in his head went off as Sherlock sprung from his cot and shuffled toward John's cot. The cot, cold, no one used it for a week, and it made no sense for Sherlock. He checked for a clipboard and found no one assigned to the cot.

"John," Sherlock coughed as he hobbled toward the bathroom, but it was empty and the door left open.

Confused, Sherlock shuffled toward his cot and looked around for his phone. Yet, despite looking around, Sherlock did not find his phone, how this was possible, he did not know.

Muttering under his breath, Sherlock attempted to retract his steps. Again, his mind came up blank and no amount of visiting his inner mind did anything to help.

"How could I not remember, where the hell's my phone?" Sherlock cursed as he hobbled around the room, confused. He stopped when the door opened and a familiar face appeared at the doorway.

In his civilian clothes, Lestrade slowly walked into the room. In his hands a small bag with warm colors and the center of both sides of the bag, Wallace & Gromit waving with a speech bubble over them saying, "Get well!"

"Lestrade…!" Sherlock smiled as he hobbled toward him.

Lestrade slowly nodded and said to him, "Hello, Sherlock, they said I could find you here, so I figured I bring you a little something."

"Detective Inspector, you needn't bring me anything," Sherlock genuinely said as Lestrade handed him the bag.

Lestrade chuckled at him, "Come on Sherlock, it's the least I can do with all things considering."

Sherlock sat on the bed with his bag and settled. Lestrade encouraged Sherlock to look through the bag and Sherlock done so. Inside Sherlock found the envelope with a card and under it a wrapped gift. Opening the envelope first, a goofy version of Albert Einstein greeted him on the front. Inside the card, several famous equations Albert Einstein done in rows lined the innards of the card, faded enough that not anything written will blend with the equations. On the right page, Lestrade and his wife signed near the bottom of the card, under their signatures, Donovan and Anderson's.

The wrapped gift, wrapped in thin pink paper, revealed as a magnifying glass. Old, made sometime in the 60's, oak wood for the handle, bronze for the metal, it had good weight to it and Sherlock liked it.

"I figured you'd like it," Lestrade looked at him.

Sherlock glanced up to him and smiled at him. He nodded his head, "I do, thank you Detective Inspector, and how are you doing?"

Lestrade groaned as he rubbed his forehead. He took a seat at the chair near Sherlock's cot as he said, "I feel like shite if I can be honest with you. The doctors say the bullet did not hit anything major, so I should heal up nicely. I will be on some pills for a little bit for the pain and the usual inflammatory infections. Other than that, I'll be on leave for a while until the doctors clear me for service."

"That's a silver lining," Sherlock comforted Lestrade to which he laughed aloud at the sheer thought.

"Sherlock, you of all people ought to know me by now. I'm not very good with having free time," Lestrade reminded him. This was true as Sherlock remembered running into him during a case, Baskerville Hound, it was. Lestrade never was the one for subtly.

"I'm sure the missus won't mind," Sherlock smiled as Lestrade stretched out in the chair. Lestrade chuckled at this as he wagged his finger at Sherlock.

"Hah, she's been babying me since I got home. I could not even crack into a beer case without her reminding me I cannot drink alcohol when I am on the pills. So, she's been getting me alternative drinks until I'm in the clear," Lestrade smiled as he told this to Sherlock. His wife, bless her heart, always done something like this. While good she is keen on helping him recover his strength and ensure his wound heals properly, Lestrade could not hide his discontent at being home all the time.

"The moment this is all over and none of us are on the pill, we ought to get some drinks, real drinks. Granted, you can't hold your alcohol worth shite, but it's the best I can do for now," Lestrade suggested as he pointed at Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled, remembering the poor attempt he did with John's stag party. They gotten drunk so early and eventually ended up in the holding cell. With overall, Sherlock was game to get drunk again. This time, he knew his limits, now.

"Of course, Detective Inspector, I like that," Sherlock smiled.

Lestrade chuckled as he thought about the goings that drinking session would bring. "I get the feeling John will think he shrunk and act like one of them hobbits and use a pen as his sword, what do you think?" He grinned at the sheer idea.

"You'd think you're the grand wizard come to aid him," Sherlock responded and Lestrade let out a hearty laugh.

Lestrade groaned when he laughed too much and the muscles around his wound moved. When he found he did not bleed or the stitches popped, he then suggested Sherlock antics.

"You'd be the dragon to torment us both. I picture you now hold up in some mountains and John has to go fight you and ends up failing," Lestrade giggled.

Sherlock could not stop smiling at this. Even though Lestrade wounded, he did not lose his sense of humor. One had to give it to him, he did not let the bullet get him down, and instead it strengthens him.

It then dawned on him. "Um, Lestrade, do you happen to know where John is?" He asked Lestrade.

"Uh, yeah, they transferred him to St. Judas so it'd be close for Mary to visit a few days ago," Lestrade mentioned as he gently rubbed his abdomen.

Sherlock tilted his head as Lestrade told him John been gone for days now. "How is this possible, we've just been here for a day, now," he struggled to understand this. Lestrade shrugged his broad shoulders. He explained to Sherlock, "It's alright Sherlock; they've been cleaning you out since you got here. From what they told me, you been in and out, it's normal for people to not remember these sort of things."

Sherlock sighed as he wrapped his mind around the matter. He been detoxing since he got here and his mind, unable to write new memories during that time, witnessed things he did not.

"Well, how is John?" Sherlock asked Lestrade. Lestrade replied with, "Much better now, Mary's been visiting him quite often and that's bringing him around quicker. The doctors there say he might get out at the end of the week."

"That's wonderful, how's Mary?" Sherlock continued as Lestrade shifted spots in his chair. Lestrade answered with, "Scared at first, your brother had to tell her what happened. Thankfully, she calmed down and been at John's side. When I went to visit him yesterday, she asked me about you."

"What did you say, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock inquired. Lestrade told him. "I told her I didn't know. I was limited in my ventures, Sherlock. I just finally got enough strength to come down here," Lestrade responded as he rubbed his eyes. "Missus almost had my head when I told her what I was doing, she's afraid I'll slip and fall."

"You're not driving are you?" Sherlock eyed him. Lestrade chortled as he wagged his finger at Sherlock. He said to Sherlock, "Oh no, she took my keys and told me for now on until my stitches heal and I'm not on the pills, it's either she drives me or the cabs."

"She's just afraid of you getting hurt, Detective Inspector," Sherlock reminded him. Lestrade groaned at this and rubbed the back of his neck. He nodded, agreeing with Sherlock's comment. He responded with, "Yeah, but she doesn't have to baby me so much. I've been hurt before, this is _nothing_."

"As you say, Detective Inspector," Sherlock bowed his head.

Sherlock noticed Lestrade struggled getting out of his chair and he assisted him. Lestrade exhaled as he lightly touched his wound. "Well, been good talk, Sherlock. I suppose I should take my leave before she has a heart attack," Lestrade mustered as he walked toward the door. He stopped and turned around to talk to Sherlock.

"Of course, Detective Inspector, I assure you once they clear me I'll be fit to continue working," Sherlock assured him. Lestrade pointed a finger at him and reminded him, "Don't forget to do that paperwork you promised."

"Of course, Detective Inspector," Sherlock nodded. He held the door open for Lestrade as he stepped through the doorway. Once he disappeared into the hallway, Sherlock closed the door, hobbled back to his bed, and sat.

With his magnifying glass in hand, Sherlock used it to entertain himself. Scanning the area with his magnifying glass, Sherlock's light blue eye, turned bulbous by the glass, stopped when he spotted something by the corner of the room.

Getting up, Sherlock walked with magnifying glass pressed against his eye until he came across an interesting sight. Black ants, at least twenty of them from what Sherlock counted, surrounded a round object. The ants swarmed the round object, stepping over each other. Whatever it was, they loved it immensely.

Whiffing the air, Sherlock faintly smelt that familiar sugary-coated chocolate sweet. The ants with their strength picked up the sweet and started carrying it slowly toward the window. Sherlock could not see the sweet entirely as some of the ants crawled over it, but it gave him just enough to deduce how long it had been there.

As he lowered the magnifying glass from his eye, Sherlock turned his head to see the door open again and behind a nurse with a tray of food came Mycroft. The nurse stood there with Mycroft as they looked at Sherlock.

"Ah, my little brother has finally regained proper conscience," Mycroft rested his umbrella against the wall as the nurse set up the table on the bed before resting the tray on it. She turned and left the room, allowing the brothers to speak privately.

"I don't suppose you know where my phone's gone?" Sherlock asked Mycroft. Mycroft dug around in his right pocket and brought out Sherlock's phone. He handed Sherlock his phone and Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

"Dear little brother, I had to take your phone. What good of it, if you could not use it. Thankfully I took it when I did, you should've seen yourself!" Mycroft gave a toothy smile, meaning that he found something funny at Sherlock's expense.

Sherlock looked at him accusingly. He asked Mycroft, "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, it was quite a show you performed. You see, since you been here, you have been switching between conversing with invisible people and sleepwalking. It intrigued the doctors as you'd imagine," Mycroft gave a smile.

Sherlock crossed his arms with his phone in his hand. He studied Mycroft and realized that as much as it pained him, Mycroft did not lie about it. Sherlock then asked Mycroft, "I suppose you found anything on Frank while I was in and out?"

Mycroft sighed, as he replied, "No, he hasn't come around. I have had my best watching you, John, and everyone else involved. He hasn't turned up."

"What about Agent Jones, has he inclined to help further?" Sherlock inquired. He stopped when he remembered the unusual characteristics that seemingly waft from Agent Jones. "Odd man he is, Agent Jones."

"What are you on about, little brother?" Mycroft tilted his head at the comment. Sherlock read him and realized he did not see the oddities in Agent Jones.

"His accent for one," Sherlock shrugged. "Have you heard such a noise, before?"

"Dear brother, are you insinuating something is wrong with his accent?" Mycroft stared in disbelief. "He is from France, specifically West Paris."

"If you can call that shrill a French accent than so is the Americans attempt at posh!" Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft rubbed his brow as he listened to Sherlock's odd reaction to Agent Jones. "I know you, little brother, what else is wrong about him?" He continued to allow Sherlock to speak his mind, mostly for his sake. As in tradition, if Mycroft does not let him do it then he will do it himself and it would be far worse then.

"His suit, not very professional of an agent of the law wearing something from a secondhand store," Sherlock pointed his finger at him.

"Really, Westwood is a secondhand store, now?" Mycroft blinked.

Sherlock chortled as he listened to his brother's response. This entire conversation wasn't going anywhere. Mycroft did not see anything wrong with Agent Jones despite Sherlock seeing him differently plan as day. "Have you looked at his skin, it's so bloody pale I'm sure Dracula would ask him to tan!" Sherlock exhaled as he went to his cot and looked at the food the nurse brought him. Only those without taste buds surely enjoyed the standard goop on days like these. Semi-cold Mac and cheese stuck together that one had to pry apart the noodles with their fingers, strawberry jelly, a small cup of unsweetened tea, and to top it off some crackers.

"Dear brother, is there something I should know about?" Mycroft raised a brow at the sight. "Have you suffered a side effect I should warn the doctors about?"

"Mycroft, how could you not have seen him like I did?" Sherlock rested his phone beside him. "His teeth were perfect, too perfect!"

"I shall inform Her Majesty that perfect teeth are a crime," Mycroft sarcastically stated as Sherlock continued to look at what the nurse brought him.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes; he did not understand any of this. He saw Agent Jones with his sickly pale skin with throbbing black veins, his unusual accent, and his hidden eyes. Mycroft did not react to any of it!

"Are you positive you're not having a reaction?" Mycroft suggested.

Sherlock sulked in his bed as he studied the bit of Mac and cheese on his fork before sitting it down in the cutout. "I don't know," he only mustered.

Mycroft rubbed his eyes again and knew his brother could not be satiated so easily and would do everything in his power to ensure his point got across. As it happened, Agent Jones arriving to drop off Intel would be enough to satiate his brother's lust to prove him wrong.

"If you still feel the need to go on with your maladies, Agent Jones is supposed to come here with some Intel he acquired from his employers," Mycroft informed Sherlock who looked at him.


	29. Chapter 29

In an hour, Agent Jones arrived at the hospital with a black leather case. He walked through the automatic doors and led to Sherlock's room by a security guard. Upon entering, he met the gazes of Sherlock and Mycroft.

Sherlock stared at Agent Jones, ready to point out all the oddities he found in the man from the first time, but found something peculiar indeed. Agent Jones' skin was not pale and sickly, his teeth were crooked in areas, and there were no black protruding veins. He looked, well, normal, and Sherlock looked to have the biggest egg on his face that ever was.

"Good morning," Agent Jones spoke perfectly. There was no speech impediment and he indeed had a proper West Parisian accent. He stared back at Sherlock before Mycroft interrupted.

"Good morning, Agent Jones, we were just waiting for you," Mycroft spoke to him. Agent Jones fluidly moved his head, as he nodded, no jaggedness or unnatural movement. Agent Jones, for lack of words, looked completely normal. It made no sense to Sherlock.

Sherlock refused the notion he was wrong. He knew what he saw and there was no way it was a simple reaction to the medication. He continued to stare as Agent Jones sat the case down on the table adjacent to the bed and unlatched the locks. Bringing out papers, tidying them in a neat stack, Agent Jones asked Sherlock, "How have you been feeling?"

"Been better," Sherlock eyed Agent Jones suspiciously just before he turned around and gave Sherlock the stack of papers from his black leather suitcase.

Looking through them, they covered a great deal about Frank. Where he gone to school, which his friends were, where he worked, and his last known addresses, everything one could ever know about the elusive Frank Colton Jr. and much more to learn as Sherlock looked at Agent Jones.

"Surprised you didn't find him," Sherlock commented as he moved around on the bed, repositioning himself while looking through the papers. Agent Jones tilted his head at this comment and shook his head in response. "I cannot apprehend him, Mr. Holmes, my duty is in writing," Agent Jones told him as he fixed his tie. "I merely help, nothing more. That is what I discussed with your brother before I arrived."

Sherlock turned his head to his brother who awkwardly stood there with guilt in his eyes. It appeared that the meeting that took place during the time Sherlock was incapacitated did not go according to plan, at least Mycroft's plans. Agent Jones refused to help aide in the apprehension of Frank, because as he quoted, "it was in writing". Oddly specific and from what little Sherlock knew of Agent Jones, if someone was working with a government body, especially one that suffered from circumstances, they'd pull no stops in apprehending the suspect. There was no way Agent Jones only gave them answers and nothing more, something about him sent his mind ravaging for answers. Strangely, a small voice in his subconscious mind warned that is dangerous to trifle Agent Jones under any circumstances. Reasons why this was so, Sherlock had no way of knowing.

"So, his friends, if you can call them that, have no way of knowing where he went or where he hangs around?" Sherlock glanced up to Agent Jones. Agent Jones slowly nodded and Sherlock chewed on his lips. He nodded too and then asked Agent Jones, "Has he turned up at all?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, we have been keeping a close eye on the situation. He has not appeared for the last five days," Agent Jones answered Sherlock's question, yet Sherlock felt that the answer was false. Something about the way Agent Jones said made his skin crawl; Sherlock had no reason to feel this way. Some could say it was his nerves working against him, but Sherlock refused to agree with it. Something was wrong and Sherlock knew it from the sight of Agent Jones.

"He wouldn't leave the city, he has unfinished business with me and John," Sherlock protested at this idea as he handed back the papers to Agent Jones and he placed them back into the suitcase.

It was evident from talking with Frank that he was a man who did not like leaving unfinished business. He was still in the city and he was waiting until the operable time to finish what he started. "Have you gone by the flat?"

"Police officers have gone by your flat many a time, marked and unmarked vehicles. Mrs. Hudson has not indicated that any suspicious characters came to the flat. All letters and packages searched for illicit materials. No sign of tampering and that is as far as we have, Mr. Holmes. Does this satisfy your inquiry?" Agent Jones answered.

Sherlock breathed with relief. Frank had no reason to go after Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was not involved in this and a mere innocent.

Knowing Mrs. Hudson was doing fine, at least from what Agent Jones said, was enough to cast away some worry that hovered in Sherlock's mind. He nodded and somewhat relaxed on the bed.

"As you can see, little brother, we've been handling this situation while you underwent treatment," Mycroft motioned his hand. However, Sherlock didn't fully relax about that. He eyed Mycroft, "Has no one seen him at all?"

"No, it's as if he disappeared off the face of the planet," Mycroft shrugged. He noticed his pocket vibrating and stuck his hand inside, he pulled out his phone and checked the caller ID. He sighed as he glanced up to his brother. "I have to take this call, little brother. Play nice with the agent, alright?"

Agent Jones held the door open and Mycroft disappeared into the hall. Agent Jones closed the door and turned around to face Sherlock who stared at hm.

"I'm quite curious about you, Agent Jones," Sherlock began as he eyed Agent Jones. Agent Jones tilted his head, confused. "I recall there used to be a saying regarding curiosity, Mr. Holmes," Agent Jones shrugged his shoulders.

Sherlock shook his head and explained, "Oh no, it's nothing about your job, Agent Jones. You seem to know a lot about me, but I hardly know anything about you."

"If I may say without inciting you, Mr. Holmes, your brother has told me only enough information to allow our conversations free of confusion and awkwardness," Agent Jones meekly responded.

Sherlock kept his smirk hidden from Agent Jones.

"That's the thing, you know, I feel for us to work together, we ought to share details. After all, you don't know how long this will last, do you?" Sherlock crossed his arms at Agent Jones. Agent Jones looked baffled, even with his sunglasses. This was something he never expected and Sherlock wanted this.

"That may be true, but my employers strongly advise against telling all," Agent Jones only said and Sherlock shook his head at this.

"It's not like I'm asking about sensitive information. It's not like I'm prying into every inch of your life. I only ask for the little things," Sherlock smiled.

Agent Jones had nothing to say about this. He had nothing to use. No ammo, an empty gun, metaphorically speaking, he couldn't deny Sherlock's inquiries anymore. Sherlock had him trapped. It was glorious.

"O-Oh alright, let's not get too hasty," Agent Jones slipped and Sherlock froze when he heard the faint speech impediment in Agent Jones' voice. He nodded and remained calm.

"Do tell what it is like growing up in Paris. I was never fond of it, to be honest with you," Sherlock scratched his hair.

Agent Jones remained quiet for almost a minute before he answered. "I never liked the traffic; the tourists were always making scenes over every little thing," he coughed. Sherlock nodded and then asked, "Well, what about school, Agent Jones. Where did you go?"

"I went to Notre Dame," Agent Jones shrugged.

Sherlock almost gleamed as he enjoyed every minute of this.

"What was your major, your minor?" he gestured at the agent who looked like a fish out of the Thames. Clearly, he did not have everything wrapped up neatly as he thought.

"Business and literature," Agent Jones confidently answered. Sherlock nodded at this and crossed his feet as he stretched his back. "I'm surprised you have any time to yourself, Agent Jones," Sherlock noticed.

Agent Jones sheepishly tugged at his tie. "I-I never have any free time," he admitted to Sherlock. Sherlock crossed his arms and tilted his head. "Must be busy being an agent of the government, isn't it?" he mentioned.

"Quite busy," Agent Jones nodded.

Sherlock then said to him as he held up his phone, checking texts while talking, "Do tell, have you had problems being an agent?"

"Being an agent has its risks, yes," Agent Jones speech impediment slowly worsened, almost to the point it was like when they first met. Sherlock shook his head and frowned.

"No, every job has its risks. You know how infuriating it is dealing with overly excited women who are chemically unbalanced?" Sherlock groaned as he remembered the many women over the years who attempted several times to gain his undivided attention. Of those women, Irene came to mind. Yet, she did not have an interest in men, she only wanted to harass and illicit a response from Sherlock.

Looking at Agent Jones, the awkwardness in his body language just said it all. Sherlock was sure he never even talked to the opposite sex much less had the time to understand anything about them. He smiled at this.

"My job cannot allow unlawful and illicit interactions with anyone, Mr. Holmes," Agent Jones pointed out to him as he tugged on his tie again. "It is a security risk, you should know this."

"Ah, but that doesn't stop most people," Sherlock pointed at him with his free and while thumbing through his website.

Agent Jones patience thinned and thinned until none remained. He grew angry with Sherlock antagonizing him, but it did not show on his face. It remained calm, his voice didn't raise, and he just stood there, following along with Sherlock's questions without so much a blink. If he ever blinked behind those sunglasses, Sherlock couldn't tell from the bed.

It was apparent that Sherlock and Agent Jones shared something, strange as it sounded. Both were young, both trying to prove themselves, both always at the whim of their older siblings. Agent Jones had several brothers, some younger than him but majority were older than him. The awkwardness he had about women, he had no sisters.

"I see your brothers give you problems as well?" Sherlock smirked at Agent Jones. Agent Jones did not reply or do anything; he remained calm and stood there. "Mycroft is a lot like a badger, all he does is badger things. Badger here, badger there, badger everywhere, he'll badger your ears off and badger your mum's off," Sherlock waved his hand.

Agent Jones smiled at him as he shook his head at Sherlock. "A badger is he?" the way he talked sent chills down Sherlock's spine.

"Yes, he's a bloody badger, always was, even when we were kids," Sherlock snorted as he begun to laugh. "He's a bloody badger!"

Agent Jones smile widened as he tilted his head at Sherlock. Sherlock continued laughing about his badger brother. He spoke nonsensically about the badger brother and his hair-triggered temper and all the things he done in their youth that resulted in outcomes favoring Sherlock.

Sherlock pointed at Agent Jones, "You know who you remind me of?"

"What is that, Mr. Holmes?" Agent Jones smirked.

"A badger…!" Sherlock laughed, holding his stomach as he fell backwards on the table.

Suddenly the table strapped him down and kept his head from moving. The room around them changed to winding halls with bright lights. Sherlock couldn't move an inch and was forced to stare at the blinding light. He heard faint whispers and the like and his mind was ablaze with unusual thoughts and feelings.

Sherlock saw a figure standing over him with a surgical scalpel. "Why have you forgotten me, in your eyes, forgotten me. In your thoughts forsaken _me_ , in your heart denying me, I will drive you up the wall, you selfish bastard. I cried, when no one else would. In my self-righteous suicide, why didn't you cry when no one else did?" he heard Morarity singing as he came at him with the scalpel.


	30. I Always Come Back

Sherlock opened his eyes. He glanced around the room, found he was alone; John was nowhere to be found. Groggily, Sherlock pushed himself up and stopped. He blinked as he looked under his fingers. On his left pinkie finger, a small indention in the center. Healed, no sign of infection, sterile, this was new. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion, before he realized. It was all a fevered dream.

Sherlock pushed himself off the bed and shuffled around. He shuffled toward the table near his bed to find an iPod, John's, charging quietly. Checking it, Sherlock found it had been charging for an hour. Taking it into his hands, Sherlock swiped the touchscreen and looked through the assorted playlists. Not surprisingly, majority of the songs were of John's taste. Continuing to look through the playlists, Sherlock stopped at one named, "Sherlock".

Looking into it, Sherlock found songs he would never listen in his life to songs he vaguely knew through John, of them Matilda Smith and Red Children. Of the songs, Sherlock came across one that caused him to play it. Red Children's "Memento" begun playing and Sherlock shuffled around the room, investigating the subtle differences he found.

"Why do you resent me, lock me up in your mind, when I am the only one who understood you?" The song echoed as Sherlock came across the Wallace & Gromit bag with the magnifying glass neatly wrapped in parchment paper. Stuck to the side by the tape, Sherlock pulled out the card Lestrade and his wife made. Inside, Sherlock tilted his head, the same card he saw in his dream. Looking at the date closely, Sherlock shook his head as he whispered, "That's impossible."

Sticking the card in the bag, Sherlock shuffled towards the bathroom. Turning on the light and starring into the mirror, Sherlock flinched at the sight of himself. Sherlock rubbed the faint beard that grew unchecked as he stared at his reflection. In the background, "At your self-righteous funeral, I was the only one who cried when no one else did. In my self-righteous suicide, why didn't you cry when no one would?"

Thoughts permitted every square inch of his mind, how everything happened. There in the woods, panicky running through the woods, following the sounds of gunshots before finding John huddled in a corner weeping uncontrollably. He helped John out and there waiting for them, Mycroft.

Mycroft took them to the hospital, John sound asleep, and yet everything else a blur in Sherlock's mind.

Sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, Sherlock held a hand under his chin as he pondered. "It wasn't LSD, was it?" He quietly said to himself. "What did you drug us with?"

His mind snapped when the door creaked opened. Poking his head into the room, a familiar face appeared. Sherlock nearly leapt up from the bed had he not seen John carrying a cup of coffee. John, in his casual attire with a white wool sweater, stopped in his tracks as they exchanged looks.

"John," Sherlock blinked as he looked at him. John stared back and replied with, "Sherlock."

"What the hell happened?" Sherlock inquired as John walked toward the table and sat the coffee down before taking up the iPod in his hands. Hitting pause on the next Red Children song, "Agent Jones", John turned his toward Sherlock.

"You were dosed, Sherlock," John informed him as he took up his cup of coffee. As John gently blew away the steam rising, Sherlock balked. He heard, "Of course, I was dosed!"

He winced at this, but shook it off before he told Sherlock, "You don't understand, Sherlock. You were _dosed_. Out of your mind, hardly knew where you were, talking to people who weren't there. Mycroft almost broke down when you almost went into cardiac arrest; it took four orderlies to get him out of the emergency room."

Sherlock listened and uncrossed his legs. He hung his head as he pieced together the events as John told him. He almost died, caused by his fevered nightmares and hallucinations, John helped but confirming his worst fears. "You were working yourself up just before you heartbeat went off the rocker. Muttering incoherently and weeping, you accidentally hit a nurse when she came in. Then you spent ten minutes crying out about something just before they got you under control enough to push you into the emergency room," John summed as he drank from his cup.

Sherlock rose his head at John asked, "What about you, how are you on your feet?"

John sighed as he took one of the chairs and pulled it toward Sherlock's bed. He explained to Sherlock, "I wasn't dosed as badly as you were. I don't know how to describe it, but I was fine in a few days. You were still out of it when they cleared me."

Sherlock continued to listen and deduced that Frank carefully constructed a plan that would allow him to dose Sherlock triple the amount of his drugs. Interestingly, Frank didn't see fit to do the same to John, considering his proximity and threats directed towards him. Perhaps, because he didn't John a threat. Perhaps John would be beneficial in the end, how or why, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"John, have they found Frank?" Sherlock immediately asked him. John rested his coffee cup on the table again, stretched out his arms, and said afterwards, "Mycroft would've overrun London with soldiers if they let him, he's been swearing up and down halls left and right. Seeing you awake and proper ought to keep him from going off the deep end."

Despite their sibling rivalry, Mycroft would hunt Frank himself to the ends of the world. Sherlock somewhat wanted to know what Mycroft would've done if he caught Frank and what would be left of Frank for the police to process.

"Where is he, dear brother?" Sherlock asked John.

John answered as he shifted spots in his chair. "He's been in and out of the hospital; they nearly had to escort him off the premises," John coughed as he rested one leg over another. "I figured you'd want to hear it from me, but your parents have been here. Mycroft tried his best but your father had to lead your mother away from the room. You'll have to talk to them after this."

Sherlock flinched when John told him his parents been here. How awful his mother must have felt seeing her youngest on the bed, out of his mind and how his father must have wanted to punch the daylights out of Frank. Now, once this ordeal is over, Sherlock gets to explain to them what happened and why it did. He mentally prepared for the scolding his mother will have for him and his father shouting at him for endangering himself and John.

"How about you and Mary, has Frank made any more threats?" Sherlock blinked. John shook his head as he assured Sherlock, "Mycroft's been keeping an eye on us. Frank hasn't even sent a raven to me. Mycroft thinks he sprung from London."

No, Mycroft is wrong. Frank wouldn't leave London, not without finishing his business with Sherlock. Frank was somewhere, where Sherlock didn't rightly know. The threat of an angry family didn't sway Frank to hide, but he also wouldn't leave.

"That's good, how about Mrs. Hudson, how is she faring?" Sherlock continued as he pondered.

John switched legs and responded with, "She's fine, too. Mycroft has been keeping an eye on us. Hell, he's been stationing men at your door because he wants Frank's head on a platter."

Hearing this intrigued Sherlock. Nevertheless, it was nice knowing that his brother protected their mutual friends while Sherlock recovered.

Yet, the mention of men being station at his door reminded Sherlock of something. He looked at John and asked him, "Have you met Agent Jones, yet?"

John stared at him, befuddled, before saying, "There's no Agent Jones, Sherlock."

"What do you mean, I met him when we came here," Sherlock insisted. John continued to stare. Sherlock, flustered raised his hands, "I talked to him, I swear!"

"Swear what, dear brother?" they heard a muffled voice.

Turning their heads, the door opened again. Standing in the threshold with his clasped umbrella at his side, Mycroft, he walked into the room and exchanged looks with Sherlock before closing the door.

"Agent Jones," Sherlock said to him. "We talked to him, when we were first brought here."

Mycroft tilted his head, confused. He explained to Sherlock, "You underwent the effects on the drive here, dear brother. You were barely coherent when they brought you on the bed."

"Sherlock, isn't possible you dreamt Agent Jones? We were listening to Red Children a lot," John suggested. Sherlock frowned and settled on his bed. Agent Jones wasn't real, a figment of his drugged mind.  
Knowingly, Mycroft, in his own way, comforted Sherlock. He said to Sherlock, "Perhaps you mistaken him for Agent Murdoc, he has been several times at my request."

Agent Murdoc, a name unfamiliar with Sherlock, but reasonably Sherlock could've been influenced by the presence and whatever he and Mycroft discussed.

"Suppose that's the case, who is he, Agent Murdoc?" Sherlock questioned.

Mycroft sighed as he explained, "A decorated agent for the MI5, I assure you dear little brother he would never gone near you if I wasn't sure of his credibility."

At least Mycroft was considerate.

"How long am I stuck here for?" Sherlock inquired as Mycroft rested the umbrella near the door before taking a chair from the table and bringing it to Sherlock's bed.

"Until the doctor says," Mycroft recalled. An answer that Sherlock didn't like very much.

"Mycroft I have to find him," Sherlock insisted. Mycroft eyed him a look Sherlock never saw in his brother before.

"You are not going after anyone, dear brother," Mycroft's voice wavered. "Haven't you risked your life enough?"

"He's still out there, Mycroft," Sherlock pointed at him. Mycroft shook his head at him. John attempted to break the building tension by saying to Sherlock, "Lestrade's made a full recovery. Honestly, I think he's as happy as the rest of us. He nearly ran into the station when they cleared him for service."

That part Sherlock knew. Lestrade returned to service, healthy, and more importantly safe. He probably still wanted that drink with Sherlock and John.

"That's good," Sherlock nodded as he turned to John. "At least he still has his health."

Mycroft interjected with, "And you barely kept yours."

"Mycroft, I need to find Frank," Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft pointed at him and said in a low voice, "You almost _died_ little brother. Our dear parents were in tears and wanted nothing more than for your speedy recovery. Do not wreck this for your stupidity."

Sherlock stared back and responded with, "I won't make the same mistake twice."

"No, you'd need to make the same mistake four times before the lesson sets in," Mycroft snarked as Sherlock leapt off the bed.

"Mycroft, must you always treat me like this?" Sherlock snarled at him. "Have I not proved myself enough?"

"Oh yes, dear brother, you have, you've proven that stupidity is genetics after all. Sit down and wait!" Mycroft barked at him.

John raised his voice, "Children! If you're not going to play nice, then you won't play at all!"

"He started it!" the brothers pointed at each other.

John shook his head. "My god, you two, looks what this case has done to you. Look at me and everyone else around us. Haven't we been through enough?" John shook his head in disapproval. "I agree with Sherlock, Mycroft. Frank is too dangerous. If he's still here he has to be found. Before you jump for joy, Sherlock, I am not done yet. I agree with Mycroft, too. You're putting yourself at risk, Sherlock. You nearly gotten yourself killed. Hell, your heart can't take it anymore. It needs rest!" John scorned at them both.

The brothers calmed and Mycroft offered a deal. "If you promise me this, and I do mean promise, then perhaps we can make a deal. If I let you catch him, you will remain in this hospital for however long need be. I want no complaints, no attempts to sway my opinion, or any of that. Do you understand me, little brother?" Mycroft eyed Sherlock.

John looked at Mycroft with bemusement. "But, Mycroft, what if something goes wrong?" John argued. Mycroft sighed and waved his hand. "If I don't let him do it, he'll do it anyway and get himself even more hurt. Enough blood has been shed, John," Mycroft responded.

John looked down to his feet before looking up to Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you sure you should move around, you've been in and out of your mind since he drugged you," John pleaded, but it were ignored as Sherlock remained set in his plot. Sighing, John ceded and responded with, "Is it worth your life?"

"John, what do I have to lose?" Sherlock asked as he frowned. "What choice do we have?"

That was then… this is now…

Sherlock and John ran up the stairs toward the rooftop. In their breaths thunder rumbled throughout the area. "Sherlock, what are we going to do?" John asked him as he briefly stopped, resting on the handlebars. Sherlock hobbled back down a few steps to stare at him. "We're going to catch him, John," he said plainly. John nodded. He said to Sherlock, "They're not going to get here in time."

"We dealt with worse," Sherlock, reminded him. He snapped his fingers at him. "Come on, we still have a suspect to catch!"

"Oy," muttered John as he hurried up the stairs with Sherlock. Sherlock almost slammed into the door as he joggled the handle until it opened. He held it open for John as he hurried out onto the rooftop. As they stepped out onto it, they met with the sight they thought they never see. There near the edge of the building was a tall and dark figure, standing there calmly. Sherlock hobbled toward it and huffed, "There's nowhere left to run!"

"Sherlock, you can't take him from there," John quietly told him.

Sherlock nodded, "Right."

Lighting flashed throughout the area and gave them a clear view of the plague doctor, bronze beak and all. Sherlock hobbled backwards and John stood there aghast. "Sherlock, what do we do?" John desperately looked at him. Sherlock stared at the plague doctor, remembering seeing it when he was searching for Alice. "What do we do?" he heard John.

Then they heard cackling under the mask. It was low and echoed through the mask. It left both Sherlock and John looking confusingly at the plague doctor. "Oh, gods aren't you two so damn fun?" they heard him.

"It-it's a person!" John gasped.

"Of course, I'm a person, dear Watson, I would have to be," he heard it say.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded.

The plague doctor continued to cackle until it tilted its head in both directions, popping bones. "Haven't you figured it out, detectives?" Sherlock heard it. "I can't believe it took you so long to figure it out."

"Who are you?" Sherlock continued to demand.

The plague doctor sighed. "Right, nose to the grind," it muttered. It raised its hands over its head and the sound of something unbuckling emitted. With one hand on the brimmed hat and another on the mask, the plague doctor revealed itself to them. His silver eyes looked at them both as he smiled.

Frank looked at them and smiled. He wagged his finger at them as he laughed. "Ah-ah! I have to say, dear Sherlock, you were always nose to the grind. And to you dear Dr. Watson, I never thought that threat worked. And here you both are on the rooftop with me!"

"Frank?" Sherlock stared at him.

Frank chuckled. "No, but I am a Frank," he gave a toothy smile. "Took you long enough to figure it out, what were you lot doing, watching the telly?"

"You attacked Lestrade," John pointed at him. Frank nodded. He said to John, "Oh please, was it really an attack when a scared little policeman points a gun at me?"

"What were you doing in the funeral home?"

"Oh, haven't you guessed, I was grabbing a few things,"

"You stole his body," Sherlock pointed at him. Frank nodded. John tilted his head as he added to what Sherlock had said, "You found Frank's body and brought it here."

"You masterminded the whole thing," Sherlock's eyes widened. "You used what you learned to secure ravens to ensure that everything went according to plan. You had them steal the shipment to draw attention, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, I might've had them do it. Then you are a man who goes by the rule of threes if I'm not mistaken. You're only interested when a case hits those three, nothing more nothing less. It is not about the drugs trade, Sherlock. It's about sending a message," Frank chuckled as he wiped his chin as rain drops ran down it. "I guess you never figured out then, though. I did have Wallace and Russel go and steal the shipment. But the shipment had something else in it that I needed, one that the Sinclair Riverside didn't put an order in for."

"You smuggled?" John eyed him. Frank wagged his finger.

He said to John, "You see John; I decided that the only way to do it is in style. See, I'm keenly aware about you two as much as a fool with his cell phone. So, I decided that what better way to make it fun than to ensure no one believes a set of nutcases. You think I'd let Alice get treatment for whatever hell's bothering him? Oh no, I wanted him sober so I can drive a nail through his head. Coincidentally, you lot seen to have made contact with it, too."

"The American bills," Sherlock suddenly said. Frank nodded. He smiled at Sherlock as he said to him, "Funny what a couple of hundred dollar bills and a few dozen pounds can do in such a short time. I had Russel distribute them to his pals in the pen and to his associates. Wallace spread them abound when he traveled. Lenny plastered them all over his room and left several at his workplace. Oh and that fellow from the shop was happy to hold onto them for me."

"That's how he drugged us," John's dark eyes widened.

Frank chuckled. "Well, yeah, I kinda had to. Oh please, where would you go to get a raven at three in the morning?" he rolled his eyes at John. "I decided to take some literary knowledge and toss it around until I came across the Raven. Such beauty in "evermore" I couldn't pass it up and that is the birth of the dreaded London Crow!"

"What did you drug us with?" Sherlock demanded as he stared down Frank. Frank wasn't bothered at the slightest and seemed to smile. He wagged his finger at Sherlock.

"So, what was it that you saw, Sherlock?" Frank deflected the question as he lowered his finger. "I know an impressionable Doc Watson would be seeing the Raven, but what about you, what sort of horror show went on in your head?"

Sherlock continued to stare down Frank and Frank merely rolled his eyes and shook his head. He was much like Morarity in many regards. Unlike Morarity, he didn't care for the attention Sherlock and John gave him. They considered nothing more than nuisances that got in the way of plans. Yet, like Morarity, he planned to deal with them doing the only thing he knew how.

"Oh, the strong silent type, such overused trope, Holmes, so overused," Frank waved his hand. "No matter, I know what you saw. Oh, don't give me that look; you can't hide it to save your life. For a man who reads people like books on a Sunday morn, you sure don't know when you're being read."

"Sherlock, what is he talking about?" John turned to him. Sherlock didn't respond. Frank sighed and rubbed the back of his head before glancing up to them.

"Oh, he knows what I'm talking about, but he won't admit it," Frank told John. "But, no matter, I'll simply indulge your curiosity: what did they say to you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cringed. He thought back to see them, Frank Sr. and Morarity, in his flat. Taunting him about the case, warning him about what would happen, the type of things that he never knew could inflict havoc on his mind. Yet it did. Here he was confronting Frank's only son who seemed to know what Sherlock was thinking.

As the rain poured, Frank smiled at them.

John blinked several times as he felt the effects of the drug overtake him. He saw a murder of crows flying about in the dark skies, with their bright amber eyes glowing, and their horrific caws. His voice wavered, "Sherlock, I-I think I'm seeing them."

"Seeing them, the ravens?" Frank tilted his head. "Are they mocking you, talking about your past failures, about the mistakes you made?"

"Enough! What did you drug us with?" Sherlock shouted at Frank. Frank sighed and wagged his finger.

"Might want to keep a leash on that one, he's going to bark at the wrong person and it's the bullet for him," Frank glanced at John. "No wonder they adore him. You know, when I first came down here, I never thought about you much. Oh, I did follow your cases when they became headliners, but nothing about them interested me. But here we are, stalking about looking for crimes, causing problems all around, oh and who was that fellow that you pledged to catch?"

Frank snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the name. Water sprayed as he did until he remembered. "Oh, right that fellow, Moriarty was it? Oh, yes, and how you took quite a beating. Quite the story, if I do say so myself. Ah, but then I remembered how you were always so desperate for information about whether he was dead or was he alive."

Sherlock eyed him. Ever since his first and last encounter with Moriarty, he had never been sure if he was truly dead or not. He couldn't find his answer and it had been driving him mad. He spent hours digging around in his head trying to redraw his steps. In the end, the elusive answer never found and it left Sherlock fatigued.

"What are you getting at?" Sherlock watched as Frank ran a hand through his graying hair.

"What if I told you, a little raven knows where he was?" Frank hinted as he waved his hand, expelling the water he had wiped away from his hair. "And where you might find him?"

"Sherlock, don't believe him," John's eyes were slowly changing before Sherlock's. "You can't believe a word he says. The ravens, they, they are telling me that he's lying!"

"What do you want?" Sherlock shouted at Frank. "What is it that you want?"

"Alice's dead, so I have that going for me," Frank sighed as he tried to think. "But, now that I mention it, I don't like little dogs trying to nip at me. So, why don't we discuss how this goes?"

"Go on," Sherlock's own voice wavered as he started to see Frank Sr. walking past him and stood beside Jr. Sr. smiled at him, his eyes glistening in the rain. Sherlock heard his own heart beating and his breath starting to quicken as his eyes were fixated on Sr.

"I'll make this palatable. I leave, without harm to me, you get a little tidbit about Morarity, and you get your cure-all. I don't and you get to writhe in pain until your poor little heart gives out. And given your addictions, past and present, you won't last a few weeks, give or take," Frank Jr. cracked his knuckle. "I'd choose wisely. How good is that brain of yours if you can't use it?"

"Sherlock, you mustn't," John mustered as his eyes spun around the ravens that flew overhead.

Caught in a difficult situation, Sherlock's light eyes spun toward the two Franks and John. His heart was beating rapidly and it was going to get worse until it did in fact give out. If he allowed Frank Jr. to flee, then there was a good chance that he'd do it all again if he felt like it. If he didn't, then given what he and John were dealing with that Frank Jr. would make sure they would not get their cure-all.

"How do I know you're not lying?" Sherlock struggled. "How do I know you're not planning to kill us both?"

John knelt to the ground, holding his head. He was muttering about the ravens, how they were in his ear. They were talking about Mary, about her lying and cheating behind John's back. How his child couldn't've been his. All the things that were ravaging him, driving him to the brink of insanity as he bellowed out her name, fresh tears mixing with the rain.

"Hah, you and Morarity are much the same. So desperate to draw people, so desperate to wield some power, and yet here we are today. Pity about him though, he had a good head about him," Frank Sr. shook his head.

In the background, John curled up in fetal position, begging for Mary. Frank Jr. was laughing like a maniac at the sight and Sherlock was left to look at Frank Sr. who his mind had trouble either seeing him as a hallucination or real. His mind ravaged by thoughts and fears realized now. He was drugged, drugged with what he didn't know, and he couldn't know unless he let Frank Jr. leave. Yet, if he were anything like Morarity, he wasn't going to give it to them even if they did let him go. He was content in watching them suffer.

"Haven't you figured it out, Sherlock?" Frank Sr. asked him. "What we've been trying to tell you?"

"No," Sherlock mustered as he legs buckled under him. He fell to the ground. "I don't know!"

Frank Sr. knelt in front of him and held up his head. He said, "Do you really trust him or do you trust me?"

Sherlock's eyes slowly dilated and he could no longer see Frank Sr. properly. His vision blurred at times, fusing both Franks together. He saw the ravens that tormented John. The faces of those Sherlock knew who died were staring down on him. "I… I trust you!" Sherlock clenched his throat. Frank Sr. Nodded.

"Good, good, you see Sherlock, the problem you're having is a very simple straightforward one. It's no wonder people have the notion you've gone slightly mad. No, you see Sherlock; the problem is that you believe you're a man of science. You don't believe in the notions the common folk have. If it goes against your scientific standards, you ignore it. Sherlock, there are things in this world you don't even know, so many things. Now you must learn the first of many. Believe me when I say this, I am not bullshitting you this time. Sherlock, prepare for unforeseen consequences."

Sherlock struggled to listen as his eyes darted like arrows, unable to stay in one spot for long. He struggled to say to Frank Sr., "What do you mean, prepare for unforeseen consequences?"

"You will see in time," Frank Sr. sternly said to him. Behind him, Frank Jr. tilts his head in confusion, hearing Sherlock speaking incoherently. "Now, for business, I understand your predicament, Sherlock. Your heart cannot survive this dose; you've been dosed far too many times. One more and you're dead. If you want to live another day, detective, and then this shouldn't be hard for you to understand. For you and John's lives, would you be willing to give up his?"

This question was unheard of. Frank Sr. proposed Frank Jr.'s death for Sherlock and John's lives. Sherlock attempted to stare at Frank Sr.'s eyes and the vague glances was enough for him. Frank Sr. was serious. "You're willing to let your son die?" Sherlock flinched at this.

Frank Sr. lightly chuckled and wagged his finger at Sherlock. "Sherlock, you have so much to learn, yet so little time," he smirked at him.

The smirk was what all he needed. Sherlock blinked, "I have your word?"

"As a dead man, son," Frank nodded.

It was true, the terms popped up in Sherlock's head and he read them. In order for this madness to end, there needed to be one final thing to happen before it all stopped. That part Sherlock wasn't privy to. Nevertheless, if he agreed, Frank Sr. would aide them and peacefully leave, never to be seen or heard from again. Given his choices, Sherlock didn't have much of a way to say no to the terms.

As if Frank Sr. knew, he smiled.

"As much as I enjoy this day, I am tired. You interest me Sherlock. Suppose I'll let you and your friend live, for another day. As for him, well, it was the thought that counts," Frank Sr. forced Sherlock's mouth open and shoved two pills down his throat. He allowed Sherlock to fall to the ground and walked toward John, doing the same. Once done, Frank Sr. pulled out a revolver and cradled it in his hands. "Remember this Sherlock; death does not hold us back. Only we hold ourselves back. And as a man of my word, Morarity is where the willow sleeps."

Frank Jr. looked at the two writhing in agony. "Oy, what are you saying?" he shouted at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes focused and he sees Frank Jr. standing there. "What the hell are you blubbering about?"

"Do take it from me, Sherlock. Sometimes dying alone is preferential to being bled dry," Frank Sr. pointed the gun at Frank Jr. and pulled the trigger. Frank Jr. fell backwards off the roof and a loud thud heard as he came to a stop on top of a parked car. Frank Sr. sighed as he shook his head. "Do forgive him; he had much to learn over the years, he had to learn from me and then from Morarity, I dread he's had an overload."

He turned to Sherlock. "Patrick was right though, I do always come back."

He walked past Sherlock and disappeared down the stairs. Sherlock left on the ground, his world spinning as he fell unconscious.

Faintly he heard the sounds of men and women. Faintly he heard his brother and Mary in the background, Mary agonizing over the condition of John. Mycroft in his cool exterior was speaking with the doctors. The sounds of beeping pierced through the conversation and like that, Sherlock heard nothing else.

What felt like weeks or even years, but a mere two days with careful care, and Sherlock's light blue eyes slowly opened to find him in the hospital. Beside him on his right was John, with Mary at his side. The room intentionally kept dim, as to allow the men to adjust to the light as the drugs flushed out of their systems. Sherlock groggily rubbed his eyes and stopped when he felt a presence before him.

"Hello, dear brother," he heard Mycroft. Sherlock lowered his arm and looked at him. "Mycroft," he mustered.

Mycroft shook his head, took a spot on the awaiting chair, and looked at him. "You owe me dearly. I had to lie to dear mother and father about what happened. I merely told them you took a blow to the back of the head," Mycroft told him as he settled on the chair. "They wanted to come here."

"What happened, what did he drug us with, where's Frank?" Sherlock instantly bombarded him with inquiries. Mycroft shook his head and answered them as he went. "The gunshot alerted the police. They found you with John sprawled out on the roof. The doctors haven't been able to discern the drugs, neither the hallucinogenic nor the cure," Mycroft informed.

Sherlock attempted to push himself up, but the weight of his body prevented that and thus he was force to settle back on the bed. "Did you find him?" Sherlock gestured.

Mycroft stared at him confusingly. Sherlock said slowly, "Frank Colton, did you find him?"

"The body was found," Mycroft told him. "It was in a flat in East London."

"Who took it?" Sherlock continued.

Mycroft responded with, "An escaped mental patient."

"Were they from Sinclair Riverside?" Sherlock coughed. He handed a Styrofoam cup filled with water by Mycroft. As Sherlock slowly drank it, he heard Mycroft.

"Actually, he was transferred out, but he did spend time there," Mycroft answered.

This was very much interesting.

"Who was it?" Sherlock lowered his cup.

Mycroft sighed. "The one who led you on this goose chase," he responded. "They weren't able to recover the revolver."

"What was his name?" Sherlock settled in the bed.

Mycroft changed position in the chair as he said, "It was a Patrick Fitzgerald. He was a typist who worked in a small printing press in Derbyshire. He diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia in 2003, institutionalized in 2004 after burning down a constable's home in Galahad while on a trip; he claimed that the constable was involved in Frank Colton's murder. It found in his possession after he was apprehended draft papers written by Frank. It confirmed to be his handwriting. How he got them, no one's been able to figure out."

"He was transferred out of Sinclair Riverside?" Sherlock questioned. Mycroft nodded.

"In 2010 after repeated attempts to cause harm to the staff, he was transferred to a high security institute in Cheshire where he remained until 2013 where he escaped and was never heard from again," he replied.

The information spun around Sherlock's mind like a spider's web. It was something that he'd never encountered before. All this time, he never once considered it. He never once thought about it. There it was. It laughed in his face. It mocked him. The answer he sought for was in front of him for the longest time and he had not once taken a glance at it.

For the few minutes he sat there, a look came over him. It was this mistaken that had almost killed both him and John, caused fright in Lestrade, killed four men and many more. A mistake will wretch Sherlock's mind until his own demise and very well into the afterlife and life after that.

Frank was telling him the truth. Sherlock wouldn't believe it. And it almost cost him dearly.

"Brother?" Mycroft raised his brow at Sherlock.

Sherlock said, "They won't find the revolver."

"It's still early," Mycroft reminded him.

Sherlock shook his head, "Because he took it with him."

Mycroft looked at him, "Who, brother?"

Sherlock's eyes widened when fear slowly overtook him, "Him. He always comes back."

Somewhere in Sherlock's mind, he heard that voice again. "I always do," it said before it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Sherlock tried desperately to find it again, chasing for it in his web of thoughts, but it never appeared again. His mind freed from its torment, but the questions remain. However, those were for another time. After all, he always came back for Sherlock to try again. There was next year to look forward.

The End


End file.
